"You will follow me as soon as you can," says 'Duke, and, to my amazement, walks steadily away.
"I am afraid I have got you into a scrape," says Mark, in a low tone, as he bends over my left foot, and with slow fingers draws out the leather straps.
"How do you mean?" I ask, haughtily, feeling passionate anger in my heart towards him at the moment, regarding him as the cause of all my misery.
"I mean—of course I don't know—but I fancied Carrington was angry with you for coming here with—that is—so late." His hesitation and stammering are both affected and untrue.
"Not a bit of it," I reply stoutly; "he probably does not like being kept waiting: men never do. He is wonderfully punctual himself, and of course I ought to have been back ages ago. I wish now I had never come. Can't you be a little quicker?" with an impatient movement of my toe. "It don't take the boys hours to get off each skate."
"You are in a desperate hurry now."
"I am in a desperate hurry, and I hate vexing Marmaduke. There, hold it tightly, and I will pull my foot out. Now, try and be a little quicker about this one."
"I assure you I am doing my best," sulkily. "I don't want to keep you here, in your present mood, longer than I can help."
"I should think not," say I, with a disagreeable laugh.
As the skate comes off he flings it aside with a savage gesture, and, rising, offers me his arm, which I decline.