At this point only Sylvia’s perception of the other’s anguished embarrassment prevented her from literally running away.  As it was, they sat silent, fingering over the pages of the album and gazing unseeingly at the various set countenances which looked out at them with the unnatural glare of the photographed.  Sylvia was canvassing desperately one possibility of escape after another when the door opened, and the lively young man of the trolley-car stepped in.  He tiptoed to the fireplace with exaggerated caution, looking theatrically over his shoulder for a pursuer.  Sylvia positively welcomed his appearance and turned to him with a cordiality quite unlike the cool dignity with which she had planned to treat him.  He sat down on the rug before the fire, very close to her feet, and looked up at her, grinning.  “Here’s where I get another one on Jerry—­what?” he said, ignoring Mrs. Fiske.  “Old Jerry thinks he’s playing such a wonderful game in there he can’t tear himself away—­but there’ll be something doing, I guess, when he does come and finds where I am!” He had partaken freely of the excellent white wine served at luncheon (the first Sylvia had ever seen), and though entirely master of his speech, was evidently even more uplifted than was his usual hilarious wont.  Sylvia looked down at him, and across at the weak-faced woman opposite her, and had a moment of wishing heartily she had never come.  She stood up impatiently, a movement which the young man took to mean a threat of withdrawal.  “Aw, don’t go!” he pleaded, sprawling across the rug towards her.  As she turned away, he snatched laughingly at her skirts, crying out, “Tag!  You’re caught!  You’re It!”

At this moment Jerry Fiske appeared in the doorway.  He looked darkly at his friend’s cheerful face and said shortly:  “Here, Stub—­quit it!  Get up out of that!” He added to Sylvia, holding out his hand:  “Come on, go skating with me.  The ice is great.”

“Are the others going?” asked Sylvia.

“Oh yes, I suppose so,” said Jerry, a trifle impatiently.

The young man on the floor scrambled up.  “Here’s one that’s going, whoever else don’t,” he announced.

“Get yourself a girl, then,” commanded Jerry, “and tell the rest to come along.  There’s to be eats at four o’clock.”

* * * * *

The ice was even as fine as it had been so redundantly represented to Sylvia.  Out of doors, leaning her supple, exquisitely poised body to the wind as she veered like a bird on her flying skates, Sylvia’s spirits rebounded with an instant reaction into enjoyment.  She adored skating, and she had in it, as in all active exercise, the half-wild pleasure of one whose childhood is but a short time behind her.  Furthermore, her costume prepared for this event (Mrs. Draper had told her of the little lake on the Fiske estate) was one of her successes.  It had been a pale cream broadcloth of the finest texture, one of Aunt Victoria’s