Towards evening Langham waded across the river, drew in his dripping line, put up his rod, and counted and weighed his fish. Then, lighting a pipe, he reslung the heavy creel across his back and started up the darkening path. From his dripping tweeds the water oozed; his shoes wheezed and slopped at every step; he was tired, soaked, successful--but happy? Possibly. It was dark when the lighted windows of the lodge twinkled across the hill; he struck out over the meadow, head bent, smoking furiously. On the steps of the club-house Colonel Hyssop and Major Brent greeted him with the affected heartiness of men who disliked his angling methods; the steward brought out a pan; the fish were uncreeled, reweighed, measured, and entered on the club book. "Finest creel this year, sir," said the steward, admiringly. The Major grew purple; the Colonel carefully remeasured the largest fish. "Twenty-one inches, steward!" he said. "Wasn't my big fish of last Thursday twenty-two?" "Nineteen, sir," said the steward, promptly. "Then it shrank like the devil!" said the Colonel. "By gad! it must have shrunk in the creel!" But Langham was in no mood to savor his triumph. He climbed the stairs wearily, leaving little puddles of water on each step, slopped down the hallway, entered his room, and sank into a chair, too weary, too sad even to think. Presently he lighted his lamp. He dressed with his usual attention to detail, and touched the electric button above his bed. "I'm going to-morrow morning," he said to the servant who came; "return in an hour and pack my traps." Langham sat down. He had no inclination for dinner. With his chin propped on his clinched hands he sat there thinking. A sound fell on his ear, the closing of a door at the end of the hall, the padded pattering of a dog's feet, a scratching, a whine. He opened his door; the bull-terrier trotted in and stood before him in silence. His Highness held in his mouth a letter. Langham took the note with hands that shook. He could scarcely steady them to open the envelope; he could scarcely see to read the line: "Why are you going away?" He rose, made his way to his desk like a blind man, and wrote, "Because I love you." His Highness bore the missive away. For an hour he sat there in the lamp-lit room. The servant came to pack up for him, but he sent the man back, saying that he _might_ change his mind. Then he resumed his waiting, his head buried in his hands. At last, when he could endure the silence no longer, he rose and walked the floor, backward, forward, pausing breathless to listen for the patter of the dog's feet in the hall. But no sound came; he stole to the door and listened, then stepped into the hall. The light still burned in her room, streaming out through the transom.