like a man to be so quiet; the faint
_click_, _click_ of Mavorovitch's skates on the ice was like a lady
knitting.

The whistle sounded again, and Winn set upon the ball with redoubled
fury. He had a feeling that if he didn't win this game he was going to
dislike it very much. He tore up the ice, every muscle strained, his
stick held low, caressing the round, flying knob in front; he had got
the ball all right, the difficulty was going to be, to keep it. His mind
listened to the faint distant scraping of Mavorovitch's approach. Winn
had chosen the exact spot for slowing up for his stroke.

It must be a long-distance shot or Mavorovitch would be there to
intercept him, the longer, the safer, if he could get up speed enough
for his swing. He had left the rest of the players behind him long ago,
tossing some to one side and outflanking others; but he had not got
clear away from Mavorovitch, bent double, and quietly calculating, a few
feet behind him, the exact moment for an intercepting spurt: and then
through the sharpness of the icy air and the sense of his own speed an
extraordinary certainty flashed into Winn. He was not alone; Claire was
there. He called it a fancy, but he knew it was a certainty. A burning
joy seized him, and a new wild strength poured into him. He could do
anything now.

He drew up suddenly, long before the spot he had fixed upon as a certain
stroke, lifted his arm, and struck with all his might. It was a long,
doubtful, crossing stroke, almost incredibly distant from the goal.

The crowd held its breath as the ball rose, cutting straight above the
goal-keeper's head, through the very center of the goal.

Winn was probably the only person there who didn't follow its flight. He
looked up quickly at the bank above him, and met her eyes. She was as
joined to him as if they had no separate life.

In a moment it struck him that there was nothing else to do but to go to
her at once, take her in his arms, and walk off with her somewhere into
the snow. He knew now that he had been in hell; the sight of her was
like the sudden cessation of blinding physical pain.

Then he pulled himself together and went back to the game. He couldn't
think any more, but the new activity in him went on playing methodically
and without direction.

Mavorovitch, who was playing even more skilfully and swiftly, got the
better of him once or twice; but the speed that had given Winn room for
his great stroke flowed tirele