fiction by many of his friends, and Floyd had a feeling that if the fiction ceased to be maintained, disaster of some kind would fall. It had been, therefore, with real alarm that he had begged his grandmother not to tease. It had been with some reservations that he had assured her of his grandfather's "grip on things." That fine, showy, picturesque, skillful personage—perhaps he had been stronger once.
Sunday morning Floyd went to the Avalon Country Club to skate. The day was mild, but the ice on the two rinks had not begun to soften. Having a contempt for fancy skating when anything more active was in progress, Floyd joined the hockey game that was beginning on the lower rink. The upper rink, just across the driveway, was reserved for the ladies, and for those of the men who preferred moderate and leisurely exercise. Mindful of the information he had received from his grandmother, Floyd looked for Lydia, but she was not to be seen. In a few moments he became entirely rapt in the excitement of the game; he was of all the players the swiftest skater and the most proficient, and he was easily exhilarated by success. At last, after he had made a long run and shot a goal, he leaned on his hockey-stick to recover his breath. Across the driveway Lydia, with her hands in her muff, was circling about doing the "outer edge" with casual ease and watching him intently.
"Good run!" she called to him, waving her muff.
He touched his cap, and went back into the game. But his enthusiasm had waned; when he was not in the scrimmage or running with the puck, he took his eyes from the play to glance at the lightly sailing figure, that wheeled and spun with such fantastic ease. Lydia seemed as much interested in watching the game as he in watching her,—doing her tricks merely by way of keeping warm. When he saw how intent on the game she was, a hot eagerness to distinguish himself in it again seized him; he dug into the ice with his skates, charged across
