"No; another lady I know of. What kind of a time had you skating?"
"Capital," replied her brother; "for an Englishman, Stanford knocks everything. Hallo, Rose! who'd have thought it?"
Rose emerged from the shadow of the window curtains, and shook hands carelessly with Master George.
"I drove over for her after you went," said his sister, "come, there's the dinner-bell, and Mr. Stanford looks hungry."
"And is hungry," said Mr. Stanford, giving her his arm. "I shall astonish Mrs. Howard by my performance this evening."
They were not a very large party—Mr. and Mrs. Howard, their son and daughter, Mr. Stanford and Rose—but they were a very merry one. Mr. Stanford had been in India once, three years ago, and told them wonderful stories of tiger hunts, and Hindoo girls, and jungle adventures, and Sepoy warfare, until he carried his audience away from the frozen Canadian land to the burning sun and tropical splendours and perils of far-off India. Then, after dinner, when Mr. Howard, Senior, went to his library to write letters, and Mrs. Howard dozed in an easy-chair by the fire, there was music, and sparkling chit-chat, racy as the bright Moselle at dinner, and games at cards, and fortune-telling by Mr. Howard, Junior; and it was twelve before Rose thought it half-past ten.
"I must go," said Rose, starting up. "I had no idea it was so late. I must go at once."
The two young ladies went upstairs for Miss Danton's wraps. When they descended, the sleigh was waiting, and all went out together. The bright March day had ended in a frosty, starlit, windless night. A tiny moon glittered sparkling overhead, and silvering the snowy ground.
"Oh, what a night!" cried Emily Howard. "You may talk about your blazing India, Mr. Stanford, but I would not give our own dear snow-clad Canada for the wealth of a thousand Indies. Good-night, darling Rose, and pleasant dreams."
Miss Howard kissed her. Mr. Howard came over, and made an attempt to do the same.