e room for half an hour before I discovered that I still
had them on."

"But snow-shoes are black. They wouldn't look half so bad. I saw those
ladies laughing at me. What _must_ they have thought?"

"Do you think it matters very much what they thought?" The stranger
turned his face towards Hilary, and smiled again in his slow, gentle
manner. "Why trouble yourself about the opinion of people whom you
don't know, and whom you will probably never see again? I suppose it is
a matter of perfect indifference to them, but what _I_ think about them
is, that they were exceedingly ill-bred to behave as they did, and I
should attach no value whatever to their opinions. Have you--er--lost
sight of your friends?"

"No, they have lost sight of me." The stranger was at once so kind, and
so sensible, that Hilary began to feel a delightful sense of restored
equanimity, and even gave a little laugh of amusement as she spoke. "I
came with my father, and he has gone off with some friends and forgotten
all about my existence. He is over there at the end of the room; the
tall man with the brown moustache--Mr Austin Bertrand."

The stranger gave a little jump in his seat, and the colour tinged his
cheek. "Bertrand!" he exclaimed. "You are Bertrand's daughter!" He
stared at Hilary with newly-awakened interest, while she smiled, well
pleased by the sensation which the name caused.

"Yes; Austin Bertrand, the novelist. You know him, then? You are one
of his friends?"

"Hardly that, I am afraid. I know him slightly, and he has been most
kind to me when we have met, but I cannot claim him as a friend. I am
one of his most ardent admirers."

"And do you write yourself?" queried Hilary, looking scrutinisingly at
the sensitive, intellectual face, and anticipating the answer before it
came.

"A little. Yes! It is my great consolation. My name is Herbert
Rayner, Miss Bertrand. I may as well introduce myself as there is no
one to do it for me. I suppose you have come up to town on a visit with
your father. You have lived in the Lake district for the last few
years, have you not? I envy you having such a lovely home."

Hilary elevated her eyebrows in doubtful fashion. "In summer it is
perfectly delightful, but I don't like country places in winter. We are
two miles from a village, and three miles from the nearest station, so
you can imagine how quiet it is, when it gets dark soon after four
o'clock, and the lanes are