“Very sincerely yours,
“Eve Marchant.”
“She has more discretion than you have, at any rate, Jack,” said Maud, as he read the letter over her shoulder.
“She writes a fine bold hand,” said he, longing to ask for the letter, the first letter of hers that his eyes had looked upon.
“I’m very sorry the five are not coming,” he went on. “Those two poor girls will have a scurvy luncheon at home, I dare say—dismal martyrs to conventionality. You must ask them another day.”
“We’ll see how to-morrow’s selection behave,” answered Maud, with her light laugh.
Vansittart was on the pathway by the lake before eleven o’clock, and he had a bad half-hour of waiting before Eve and her two young sisters appeared at the lodge. He met them near the gates, and they set off for the ice together.
“I hear you only slide,” he said to the little one, who was red as a rose after the long walk through the nipping air. “That won’t do. You must turn over a new leaf to-day, and learn to skate. I’m going to teach you.”
“That would be lovely,” answered Peggy; “but I’ve got no skates.”
“Oh, but we must borrow a pair or steal a pair. Skates shall be found somehow.”