“You’re much too incompetent to be out on the ice alone,” he remarked as he buckled the last strap.
A faint flush of annoyance rose in Jean’s cheeks at the uncompromising frankness of the observation.
“What are your friends thinking of to let you do such a thing?” he pursued, blandly ignoring her mute indignation.
“I have no friends here. I am—my own mistress,” she replied rather tartly.
He was still kneeling in the snow in front of her. Now he sat back on his heels and subjected her face to a sharp, swift scrutiny. Almost, she thought, she detected a sudden veiled suspicion in the keen glance.
“You’re not the sort of girl to be knocking about—alone—at a hotel,” he said at last, as though satisfied.
“How do you know what I’m like?” she retorted quickly, “You are hardly qualified to judge.”
“Pardon, mademoiselle, I do not know what you are—but I do know very certainly what you are not. And”—smiling a little—“I think we have just had ocular demonstration of the fact that you’re not accustomed to fending for yourself.”
There was something singularly attractive about his smile. It lightened his whole face, contradicting the settled gravity that seemed habitual to it, and Jean found herself smiling back in response.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not,” she admitted. “I came here with my father, and he was—was suddenly called away. I am going on to stay with friends.”