“Very new,” said Scott.

“Can you skate?” asked the lad.  “But of course you can.  I suppose you’re another dark horse.  It’s too bad, you know; just as Dinah and I are beginning to fancy ourselves at it.  We began right at the beginning too.”

“Consider yourself lucky!” said Scott rather briefly.

“What do you mean?” The boy’s eyes flashed over him intelligently, green eyes humorously alert.

Scott glanced downwards.  “I mean my legs are not a pair, so I can’t even begin.”

“Oh, bad luck, sir!” The equality vanished from the boy’s voice.  He became suddenly almost deferential, and Scott realized that he was no longer regarded as a comrade.  “Still”—­he hesitated—­“you can luge, I suppose?”

“I don’t quite see myself,” said Scott, looking across once more to the merry group on the distant run.

“Any idiot can do that,” the boy protested, then turned suddenly a deep red.  “Oh, lor, I didn’t mean that!  Hi, Dinah!” He turned to cover his embarrassment and sent a deafening yell at the sun-bathed facade of the hotel.  “Are you never coming, you cuckoo?  Half the morning’s gone already!”

“Coming, Billy!” at once a clear gay voice made answer, and the merriest face that Scott had ever seen made a sudden appearance at an open window.  “Darling Billy, do keep your hair on for just two minutes longer!  Yvonne has been trying on my fancy dress, but she’s nearly done.”

The neck and shoulders below the laughing face were bare and a bare arm waved in a propitiatory fashion ere it vanished.

“Looks as if the fancy dress is a minus quantity,” observed Billy to his companion with a grin.  “I didn’t see any of it, did you?”

Scott tried not to laugh.  “Your sister?” he asked.

Billy nodded affirmation.  “She ain’t a bad urchin,” he observed, “as sisters go.  We’re staying here along with the de Vignes.  Ever met ’em?  Lady Grace is a holy terror.  Her husband is a horrible stuck-up bore of an Anglo-Indian,—­thinks himself everybody, and tells the most awful howlers.  Rose—­that’s the daughter—­is by way of being very beautiful.  There she goes now; see?  That golden-haired girl in red!  She’s another of your beastly star skaters.  I’ll bet she’ll have that big bounder cutting capers with her before the day’s out.”

“Think so?” said Scott.

Billy nodded again.  “I suppose he’s a prince at least.  My word, doesn’t he fancy himself?  Look at that now?  Side—­sheer side!”

The skater under discussion had just executed a most intricate figure not far from them.  Having accomplished it with that unerring and somewhat blatant confidence that so revolted Billy’s schoolboy soul, he straightened his tall figure, and darted in a straight line for the end of the rink above which they stood.  His hands were in his pockets.  His bearing was superb.  He described a complete circle below them before he brought himself to a stand.  Then he lifted his dark arrogant face.  He wore a short clipped moustache which by no means hid the strength of a well-modelled though slightly sneering mouth.  His eyes were somewhat deeply set, and shone extraordinarily blue under straight black brows that met.  The man’s whole expression was one of dominant self-assertion.  He bore himself like a king.