ed upon Dr. Gurnet's consent.

Dr. Gurnet had consented, though he had raised his eyebrows and said,
"Pair-skating?" and then he had asked who Major Staines had chosen for
his partner. Naturally Winn had become extremely stiff, and said, "Miss
Rivers," in a tone which should have put an end to the subject.

"Well, well!" said Dr. Gurnet. "And she's a woman, after all, isn't
she?" Winn ignored this remark.

"By the by," he said, "my friend's coming out in about a fortnight--the
one I told you about, Captain Drummond."

"I remember perfectly," said Dr. Gurnet; "a most estimable person I
understand you to say. In about a fortnight? The skating competition
will just be over then, won't it? I am sure I hope you and Miss Rivers
will both make a great success of it."

The fortnight passed in a sunny flash. On the whole Winn had kept
himself in hand. His voice had betrayed him, his eyes had betrayed him,
all his controlled and concentrated passion had betrayed him; but he
hadn't said anything. He had buried his head deep in the sands and
trusted like an ostrich to an infectious oblivion. He reviewed his
behavior on the way to the rink the day of the International.

It was an icy cold morning; the valley was wrapped in a thick blue mist.
There was no sunlight yet. The tops of the mountains were a sharpened
deadly white, colder than purity. As he walked toward the valley the
black fir-trees on the distant heights took fire. They seemed to be
lighted one by one from some swift, invisible torch, and then quicker
than sight itself the sun slipped over the edge and ran in a golden
flood across the mountains. The little willows by the lake-side turned
apricot; the rink was very cold and only just refrozen. It was a small
gray square surrounded by color. Winn was quite alone in the silence and
the light and the tingling bitter air. There was something in him that
burned like a secret undercurrent of fire. Had he played the game? What
about that dumb weight on his lips when he had tried to tell Claire on
the Schatz Alp about Estelle? He couldn't get it out then; but had he
tried again later? Had he concealed his marriage? Why should he tell her
anything? She wouldn't care, she was so young. Couldn't he have his bit
of spring, his dance of golden daffodils, and then darkness? He really
thought of daffodils when he thought of Claire. She wouldn't mind,
because she was spring itself, and had in front of her a great
succession of flow