her knees and held out what he thought at first was some queer small
muff of feathers.

"Please hold this pigeon," she said, "I saw it this afternoon, and I
came out to look for it. Somebody has broken its wings."

"If you came out to walk on ice," he replied with a smile, "why, in
Heaven's name, didn't you wear skates or rubbers?"

She gave a short little laugh which was entirely without merriment. "I
don't skate, and I never wear rubbers."

He glanced down at her feet in candid disapproval. "Then you mustn't be
surprised if you get a sprained ankle."

"I am not surprised," she retorted calmly. "Nothing surprises me. Only
my ankle isn't sprained. I am just getting my breath."

She had rested her knee on a bench, and she looked up at him now with
bright, enigmatical eyes. "You don't mind waiting a moment, do you?"
she asked. To his secret resentment she appeared to be deliberately
appraising either his abilities or his attractions--he wasn't sure which
engaged her bold and perfectly unembarrassed regard.

"No, I don't mind in the least," he replied, "but I'd like to get you
home if you have really hurt yourself. Of course it was your own fault
that you fell," he added truthfully but indiscreetly.

For an instant she seemed to be holding her breath, while he stood there
in what he felt to be a foolish attitude, with the pigeon (for all