I guess, when he does come and finds
where I am!" He had partaken freely of the excellent white wine served
at luncheon (the first Sylvia had ever seen), and though entirely
master of his speech, was evidently even more uplifted than was his
usual hilarious wont. Sylvia looked down at him, and across at the
weak-faced woman opposite her, and had a moment of wishing heartily
she had never come. She stood up impatiently, a movement which the
young man took to mean a threat of withdrawal. "Aw, _don't_ go!" he
pleaded, sprawling across the rug towards her. As she turned away, he
snatched laughingly at her skirts, crying out, "Tag! You're caught!
You're It!"

At this moment Jerry Fiske appeared in the doorway. He looked darkly
at his friend's cheerful face and said shortly: "Here, Stub--quit it!
Get up out of that!" He added to Sylvia, holding out his hand: "Come
on, go skating with me. The ice is great."

"Are the others going?" asked Sylvia.

"Oh yes, I suppose so," said Jerry, a trifle impatiently.

The young man on the floor scrambled up. "Here's one that's going,
whoever else don't," he announced.

"Get yourself a girl, then," commanded Jerry, "and tell the rest to
come along. There's to be eats at four o'clock."

* * * * *

The ice was even as fine as it had been so redundantly represented to
Sylvia. Out of doors, leaning her supple, exquisitely poised body to
the wind as she veered like a bird on her flying skates, Sylvia's
spirits rebounded with an instant reaction into enjoyment. She adored
skating, and she had in it, as in all active exercise, the half-wild
pleasure of one whose childhood is but a short time behind her.
Furthermore, her costume prepared for this event (Mrs. Draper had told
her of the little lake on the Fiske estate) was one of her successes.
It had been a pale cream broadcloth of the finest texture, one of Aunt
Victoria's reception gowns, which had evidently been spoiled by having
coffee spilled down the front breadth. Sylvia had had the bold notion
of dyeing it scarlet and making it over with bands of black plush
(the best bits from an outworn coat of her mother's). On her gleaming
red-brown hair she had perched a little red cap with a small black
wing on either side (one of Lawrence's pet chickens furnished this),
and she carried the muff which belonged with her best set of furs.
Thus equipped, she looked like some impish, slender young Brunhilde,
with her