He had watched Belle Purtett all the morning, and saw that she distinguished nobody with her smiles, not even that coq du village, Ringdove. He also observed that she was furtively watching him.
By and by she sailed out of the crowd, and went off a little way to practise.
“Now,” said he to himself, “sail in. Bill Tarbox!”
Belle heard the sharp strokes of a powerful skater coming after her. Her heart divined who this might be. She sped away like the swift Camilla, and her modest drapery showed just enough and “ne quid nimis” of her ankles.
Bill admired the grace and the ankles immensely. But his hopes sank a little at the flight, — for he thought she perceived his chase and meant to drop him. Bill had not had a classical education, and knew nothing of Galatea in the Eclogue, — how she did not hide, until she saw her swain was looking fondly after.
“She wants to get away,” he thought. “But she sha’n’t, — no, not if I have to follow her to Albany.”
He struck out mightily. Presently the swift Camilla let herself be overtaken.
“Good morning, Miss Purtett.” (Dogged air.)
“Good morning, Mr. Tarbox.” (Taken-by-surprise air.)
“I’ve been admiring your skating,” says Bill, trying to be cool.
