Then Ethel came back with her companion, who asked if I waltzed. On answering no, he said, “So sorry,” lifted his cap and skated away. No person asked Ethel for the succeeding “band”—as they call it—so she kindly tried to teach me the waltz while Mr. Bang secured one of the few dowdy girls present, and went away. Ethel may not be a social figure, but is certainly unselfish and kind. I must remember that.
She explained the strokes I should master, and said I should practise with Mr. Bang. Mr. Bang! I’m sick of Mr. Bang. I asked Ethel if any of the good skaters ever asked her to skate and she replied they did not. When I asked her if she knew any of them, she answered “Nearly all.” I do not know what to make of this. I hope I did not hurt Ethel’s feelings. Anyhow it is funny.
Ethel pointed out to me Doris Mount, who did not skate at all well, not nearly as well as she herself did. Polly Townsend was then skating with her. I suppose Polly finds it convenient to do the polite to her; while no person found it necessary to be polite to Ethel; and as for myself I might as well have been “not present.”
One person, at any rate, was pleased with Doris Mount—her mother sat on the promenade and leaning on the rail glued her eyes on her daughter. She was alone, so I left the ice and walked to where she sat. Her greeting was not cordial; but I seated myself beside her, deciding to await her humour. I was pleased to consider her abstracted; she kept dangling her muff over the ice.
At last I exclaimed, “Oh! Mrs. Mount,”—the exclamation was in the idea of leading her to thinking I was suddenly visited by an inspiration from the Heavens. Of course this was in imitation of Mumsie’s greeting when she stopped Mrs. Mount on the street. “I have remembered what you said about meeting only nice people, so I have decided to ask you to introduce me, will you?”
“Who brought you here?” she asked abruptly and coldly. I felt snubbed: but my blood was up.
I would have answered “Ethel Bassett”, but realized that the inference she would draw would be hardly fair to Ethel, so I answered, “Mr. Bang,” feeling a martyr as I did so.
“But he is not a member,” she objected.
There was nothing for it, so I said: “And Miss Bassett.”
“Humph,” she snorted, “I don’t know really: the Bassett girl can’t do anything for you, her father is an old fogey and the mother has no go. They have no money;” reflectively and then more good naturedly, “well all right,” and kept on dangling her muff while she turned her eyes for a moment on me. I cannot say I was proud of myself. As I write this for my own eyes, I confess I am ashamed of myself. However!