“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“Quite capable of taking care of myself,” remarked the girl. “Just lace up my boots for me, please.” They left the lady in the vestibule perusing a Cardiff journal bearing date of a Tuesday in the previous month.
One could see on their return that the afternoon on the rink had reached highest expectations; their animation caused some compression of the eyebrows on the part of sedater folk taking tea. Everything had happened as the flushed, excited girl wanted it to happen. Her ability had excited favourable comment from other skaters; one of the professionals gave a compliment; the band played delightfully, and she—not caring for indoor dancing—completely and thoroughly enjoyed a waltz. Sun shining all the time.
“After tea,” she explained, “we are going out to do some ski-ing.”
“Who is meant, pray,” asked her sister carefully, “by the word ‘we’?”
“Mr. Masterson and myself, of course!”
“Oh!” commented her sister, giving an inflection which the printed word cannot convey.
“What’s your objection, Ellen?”
“It would be useless for me to offer any. I shall stay in and write. Does he know that you neither play nor sing?”
“I’ve told him,” snapped the girl.