the rink and, snatching the puck out from a scrimmage, made off with it toward the distant goal. As he approached flying, he heard Lydia's cry ringing out above the clash of skates,—"Go it, Floyd, go it!"—and then the next moment the goal-keeper had blocked his shot, and he had slid up against the bank, chagrined at the failure of his brilliant run.
Lydia swung out upon one foot and called to him as she floated on the long curve, "It's brutal the way you skate. Come and do this with me."
He deserted the game without a word, walked across the driveway on his skates, and stood beside her.
"This way," she said, and dropping her muff and holding out her hands to him she led him upon a long outward roll. In this light partnership, Floyd felt her buoyancy. A swift side glance gave him the dark autumnal color of her cheek, the gentle parting of her lips as she gazed down at the ice with pleased intentness. In that glance, the excitement of the game with which he still was throbbing became a more mad and possessing excitement.
They stopped, and at that moment Lydia made the unluckiest speech.
"If you'd only come round, so that we could practice together! Where have you been? Why have n't you been near me—after your promise?"
"Can't you guess?" Floyd cried. He paused, but in the pause he seemed only to gather force to hurl himself more recklessly into the pit. "It's because I care for you too much—and because I know I could make you care for me."
"Oh, Floyd!" They stood facing each other in silence; the dark autumnal color faded from her face, the light of gay-hearted fellowship left her eyes, and Floyd, looking into them unflinchingly, saw there only sad regret.
"I knew I'd tell you if I kept on seeing you," he said gloomily. "I did n't dare trust myself. And now—I've told."
