CHAPTER IV—THE STOLEN DAY
“E NCORE une fois! Bravo! That went better!” Monsieur Griolet’s understudy had amply justified his claim to capability. After a morning’s tuition at his hands, Jean found her prowess in the art of skating considerably enhanced. She was even beginning to master the mysteries of “cross-cuts” and “rocking turns,” and a somewhat attenuated figure eight lay freshly scored on the ice to her credit.
“You are really a wonderful instructor,” she acknowledged, surveying the graven witness to her progress with considerable satisfaction.
Her self-appointed teacher smiled.
“There is something to be said for the pupil, also,” he replied. “But now”—glancing at his watch—“I vote we call a halt for lunch.”
“Lunch!” Jean’s glance measured the distance to the hotel with some dismay.
“But not lunch at the hotel,” interposed her companion quickly.
Jean regarded him with curiosity.
“Where then, monsieur?”
“Up there!” he pointed towards the pine-woods. “Above the woods there is a hut of sorts—erected as a shelter in case of sudden storms for people coming up from the lower valley to Montavan and beyond. It’s a rough little shanty, but it would serve very well as a temporary salle à manger. It isn’t a long climb,” he added persuasively. “Are you too tired to take it on after your recent exertion?”