"
Mr. Watson knew well enough; who better!
"I mean on the Strathaivron Lodge stretch of the water?" Lionel
continued.
"Oh, yes; I am often sending flies to Miss Cunyngham," was the answer.
"Oh, Miss Cunyngham?" said Lionel. "It is for her I want some flies."
"Very well, sir, I will make up a small packet, and send it to her? Miss
Cunyngham has an account with me--"
"No, no, that isn't what I mean at all," Lionel interposed, hastily. "I
want to make Miss Cunyngham a little present. The fact is, I was using
her book," he observed, with some importance (as if it could in the
least concern a worthy tackle-maker in Inverness to know who had gone
fishing with Miss Cunyngham), "and I whipped off a good number, so I
want to make amends, don't you see?"
"Very well, sir; how many will I put up?"
"All you've got," was the prompt reply.
Mr. Watson stared.
"Oh, yes," Lionel said. "Miss Cunyngham may as well have a good stock at
once. You know the proper kinds--Blue Doctors, Childerses, Jock Scotts,
Dirty Yellows, Bishops, Bees--that's about it, isn't it?--and put in
plenty of various sizes. Then don't make a parcel of them; put them into
those japanned boxes with the cork in them--never mind how many; and if
you can't tell me at once how much it will all come to, I will leave you
my London address, and you'll send the bill to me.
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