Imagine a slope as steep as a roof, paved with solid blocks of ice, which are subsequently frozen together by flooding with water; imagine a sledge with steel runners polished like a knife; imagine a thousand lights on either side of this glittering path, and you have some idea of an ice-hill.  It is certainly the strongest form of excitement imaginable—­next, perhaps, to whale-fishing.

There is no question of breathing, once the sledge has been started by the attendant.  The sensation is somewhat suggestive of a fall from a balloon, and yet one goes to the top again, as surely as the drunkard will return to his bottle.  Fox-hunting is child’s play to it, and yet grave men have prayed that they might die in pink.

Steinmetz was standing at the foot of the ice-hill when an arm was slipped within his.

“Will you take me down?” asked Maggie Delafield.

He turned and smiled at her—­fresh and blooming in her furs.

“No, my dear young lady.  But thank you for suggesting it.”

“Is it very dangerous?”

“Very.  But I think you ought to try it.  It is a revelation.  It is an epoch in your life.  When I was a younger man I used to sneak away to an ice-hill where I was not known, and spend hours of the keenest enjoyment.  Where is Paul?”

“He has just gone over there with Etta.”

“She refuses to go?”

“Yes,” answered Maggie.

Steinmetz looked down at his companion with his smile of quiet resignation.

“You tell me you are afraid of mice,” he said.

“I hate mice,” she replied.  “Yes—­I suppose I am afraid of them.”

“The princess is not afraid of rats—­she is afraid of very little, the princess—­and yet she will not go on the ice-hill.  What strange creatures, mademoiselle!  Come, let us look for Paul.  He is the only man who may be trusted to take you down.”

They found Paul and Etta together in one of the brilliantly lighted kiosks where refreshments were being served, all hot and steaming, by fur-clad servants.  It was a singular scene.  If a coffee-cup was left for a few moments on the table by the watchful servitors, the spoon froze to the saucer.  The refreshments—­bread and butter, dainty sandwiches of caviare, of pate de foie gras, of a thousand delicatessen from Berlin and Petersburg—­were kept from freezing on hot-water dishes.  The whole scene was typical of life in the northern capital, where wealth wages a successful fight against climate.  Open fires burned brilliantly in iron tripods within the doorway of the tent, and at intervals in the gardens.  In a large hall a string band consoled those whose years or lungs would not permit of the more vigorous out-door entertainments.

Steinmetz made known to Paul Maggie’s desire to risk her life on the ice-hills, and gallantly proposed to take care of the princess until his return.

“Then,” said Etta gayly, “you must skate.  It is much too cold to stand about.  They are going to dance a cotillon.”