“Well, how go things?” he swaggered, throwing up his head with a nonchalance that was belied by the keen worry of his eyes. “Satisfied with McGill?”
David retreated. “Sure,” he avoided an answer.
Duer knew that in such gatherings as now downstairs men must talk politics and business while the mentally segregated ladies discussed servants and dress. Duer had the passion of conforming. Life to him was an exclusive club to which he yearned to belong. Service was a means toward being voted in. He had all the fervor of a mediæval page grasping for spurs. But David was miserable in this intruding sense of fitness. He liked the anarchy of Lois more. He was curious about this girl whom Lois loved. He had nothing to say to Duer.
So the four joined a circle from which Duer spiritually retired. David did not know how to skate. Lois and Fay already lived the delight of teaching him. The Rink would be open soon. They argued the kind of skates he should buy.
“And if you fall,” said Lois forbiddingly.
“Oh, he will fall. Beginners always do.”
“Well, never you mind. We’ll pick you up. Won’t we, Fay? We’ll take care of you.”
She seemed almost tender. Then her hard giggle.
“No one shall laugh at you either,” Fay declared.
“No one except us,” said Lois.