"Are you not very glad we came this way?" Bertie was saying.
"If we had only snow-shoes," cried the breathless Bluebell, for the third time slipping into a drift, but struggling out before Du Meresq could do more than catch her hand.
"Poor little fingers! how cold they are," trying to put them in with his own into his large beaver gloves.
"Oh, I wish you would be sensible," stammered Bluebell, much confused.
"What's the use of being sensible," retorted he, "when it is so much pleasanter being otherwise? Time enough for that when anybody's by."
But Bluebell wrenched her hand away, bringing off the glove, which she threw on the snow.
"Is that a challenge, Miss Bluebell? Must take up the gauntlet? Good gracious, my dear child, you are not really annoyed? Well, we will be sensible, as you call it. Only you must begin; I don't know how."
"Evidently," said Bluebell, very tartly, drawing as far away as the exigencies of the track would admit. She could hold her own well enough with the young subalterns she had hitherto flirted with, but this man was older, and had a bewildering effect on her.
"Are you and Cecil great friends?" asked Bertie, presently, with the air of having forgotten the fracas.
"I hope so," coming out of her offended silence at this neutral topic. "I know I like her well enough."