“Miss Wilson did not tell me that she ordered you to come,” said Miss Ward.

“Just like her to be thoughtful and yet not let on to be!  She is a kind lady, and a learned—­like yourself, Miss.  Sit yourself down on the camp-stool and give me your heel, if I may be so bold as to stick a gimlet into it.”

His assistance was welcome, and Miss Ward allowed him to put on her skates.  She was a Canadian, and could skate well.  Jane, the first to follow her, was anxious as to the strength of the ice; but when reassured, she acquitted herself admirably, for she was proficient in outdoor exercises, and had the satisfaction of laughing in the field at those who laughed at her in the study.  Agatha, contrary to her custom, gave way to her companions, and her boots were the last upon which Smilash operated.

“How d’you do, Miss Wylie?” he said, dropping the Smilash manner now that the rest were out of earshot.

“I am very well, thank you,” said Agatha, shy and constrained.  This phase of her being new to him, he paused with her heel in his hand and looked up at her curiously.  She collected herself, returned his gaze steadily, and said:  “How did Miss Wilson send you word to come?  She only knew of our party at half-past nine last night.”

“Miss Wilson did not send for me.”

“But you have just told Miss Ward that she did.”

“Yes.  I find it necessary to tell almost as many lies now that I am a simple laborer as I did when I was a gentleman.  More, in fact.”

“I shall know how much to believe of what you say in the future.”

“The truth is this.  I am perhaps the worst skater in the world, and therefore, according to a natural law, I covet the faintest distinction on the ice more than immortal fame for the things in which nature has given me aptitude to excel.  I envy that large friend of yours—­Jane is her name, I think—­more than I envy Plato.  I came down here this morning, thinking that the skating world was all a-bed, to practice in secret.”

“I am glad we caught you at it,” said Agatha maliciously, for he was disappointing her.  She wanted him to be heroic in his conversation; and he would not.

“I suppose so,” he replied.  “I have observed that Woman’s dearest delight is to wound Man’s self-conceit, though Man’s dearest delight is to gratify hers.  There is at least one creature lower than Man.  Now, off with you.  Shall I hold you until your ankles get firm?”

“Thank you,” she said, disgusted:  “I can skate pretty well, and I don’t think you could give me any useful assistance.”  And she went off cautiously, feeling that a mishap would be very disgraceful after such a speech.