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Side 60 av 112
She was now not merely an angler, but a "record" angler of the most
virulent type. Wherever they went, she wanted, and she got, the
pick of the water. She seemed to be equally at home on all kinds of
streams, large and small. She would pursue the little mountain-
brook trout in the early spring, and the Labrador salmon in July,
and the huge speckled trout of the northern lakes in September, with
the same avidity and resolution. All that she cared for was to get
the best and the most of the fishing at each place where she angled.
This she always did.
And Beekman,--well, for him there were no more long separations from
the partner of his life while he went off to fish some favourite
stream. There were no more home-comings after a good day's sport to
find her clad in cool and dainty raiment on the verandah, ready to
welcome him with friendly badinage. There was not even any casting
of the fly around Hardscrabble Point while she sat in the canoe
reading a novel, looking up with mild and pleasant interest when he
caught a larger fish than usual, as an older and wiser person looks
at a child playing some innocent game. Those days of a divided
interest between man and wife were gone. She was now fully
converted, and more. Beekman and Cornelia were one; and she was the
one.
The last time I saw the De Peysters he was following her along the
Beaverkill, carrying a landing-net and a basket, but no rod. She
paused for a moment to exchange greetings, and then strode on down
the stream. He lingered for a few minutes longer to light a pipe.
"Well, old man," I said, "you certainly have succeeded in making an
angler of Mrs. De Peyster."
"Yes, indeed," he answered,--"have n't I?" Then he continued, after
a few thoughtful puffs of smoke, "Do you know, I 'm not quite so
sure as I used to be that fishing is the best of all sports. I
sometimes think of giving it up and going in for croquet."
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