"I am sure it will," Verrian said, but a glance at the gray sky did not
confirm him in his prophetic venture. The snow was sodden under foot; a
breath from the south stirred the pines to an Aeolian response and moved
the stiff, dry leaves of the scrub-oaks. A sapsucker was marking an
accurate circle of dots round the throat of a tall young maple, and
enjoying his work in a low, guttural soliloquy, seemingly, yet,
dismayingly, suggestive of spring.

"It's lovely, anyway," she said, following his glance with an upward turn
of her face.

"Yes, it's beautiful. I think this sort of winter day is about the best
the whole year can do. But I will sacrifice the chance of another like
it to your skating-tea, Miss Shirley."

He did not know why he should have made this speech to her, but
apparently she did, and she said, "You're always coming to my help, Mr.
Verrian."

"Don't mention it!"

"I won't, then," she said, with a smile that showed her thin face at its
thinnest and left her lip caught on her teeth till she brought it down
voluntarily. It was a small but full lip and pretty, and this trick of
it had a fascination. She added, gravely, "I don't believe you will like
my ice-tea."

"I haven't any active hostility to it. You can't always be striking
twelve--twelve midnight--as you will be in Seeing Ghosts. But your
ice-tea will do very well for striking five. I'm rather elaborate!"