II
What happened in the next few weeks is rather difficult to describe. I saw Miss Sinclair again and again, and lost no opportunity of expressing my admiration; for I have a theory that if you make love to a woman long enough, and ardently enough, you are sure to get rather fond of her at last. I was progressing splendidly; I often felt almost sad, and very nearly succeeded at times in being a little jealous of Freddy.
On one occasion—it was a warm day at the end of the season, I remember—we had gone to skate at that absurd modern place where the ice is as artificial as the people, and much more polished. Freddy, who was an excellent skater, had undertaken to teach Alice's little sister, and I was guiding her own graceful movements. She had just remarked that I seemed very fond of skating, and I had answered that I was—on thin ice—when she stumbled and fell. . . . She hurt her ankle a little—a very little, she said.
"Oh, Miss Sinclair—'Alice'—I am sure you are hurt!" I cried, with tears of anxiety in my voice. "You ought to rest—I am sure you ought to go home and rest."
Freddy came up, there was some discussion, some demur, and finally it was decided that, as the injury was indeed very slight, Freddy should remain and finish his lesson. And I was allowed to take her home.
We were in a little brougham; delightfully near together. She leaned her pretty head, I thought, a little on one side—my side. I was wearing violets in my button-hole. Perhaps she was tired, or faint.
"How are you feeling now, dear Miss Sinclair?"
"Much better—thanks!"
"I am
