“Yes, dear?” said Sybil half interrogatively, as they moved along. “We can talk here charmingly, unless Mr. Vancouver comes after us again. But you do skate beautifully, you know. I had no idea you could.”
“Oh, I told you I could do everything,” said Joe, with some pride. “Where did you get that beautiful fur, my dear? It is magnificent. You are just like the Snow Angel now.”
“In Russia. Everybody wears white fur there, you know. We were in St. Petersburg some time.”
“I know. We cannot get it in England. If one could I would have told Ronald to bring me some when he comes.”
“Who is Ronald?” asked Sybil innocently.
“Oh, he is the dearest boy,” said Joe, with a little sigh, “but I do so wish he were not coming!”
“Because he has not got the white fur?” suggested Sybil.
“Oh no! But because”–Joe lowered her voice and spoke demurely, at the same time linking her arm more closely in Sybil’s. “You see, dear, he wants to marry me, and I am afraid he is coming to say so.”
“And you do not want to marry him? Is that it?”
Joe’s small mouth closed tightly, and she merely nodded her head gravely, looking straight before her. Sybil pressed her arm sympathetically and was silent, expecting more.