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He exchanged a few words with one of his companions of the dinner-table a small-bodied, big-headed chemical student called Dickensey, who had a reputation for his cynicism.
Only Madeleine and Dickensey sat aloof, and for once were agreed: Americans were really "very bad form." There was no livelier pair than Maurice and Miss Martin; the latter's voice could be heard above all others, as she taught Maurice new steps in a corner of the room. Her flaxen hair had partly come loose, and she did not stop to put it up.
Her skirts clung close in front, and swept out behind her lithe figure, until it was lost in the crowd. "Don't you wish YOU could skate like that?" asked the sharp-tongued little student, called Dickensey, who was standing beside Madeleine.
As it was, she was vexed at not having had the opportunity of a quiet word with Maurice; and when she had laboriously skated up, with Dickensey, to the spot where, in a bright splash of moonlight, Maurice and Miss Martin were cutting ingenious capers, she cried to the former in a peremptory tone: "There's something wrong with my skate, Maurice.
Will you look at it, please?" and as sharply declined Dickensey's proffered aid. Maurice came to her side at once, and in this way she detained him. But Dickensey hovered not far off, and Miss Martin was still in sight. Madeleine caught her skate in a crack, fell on her knee, and said she had now loosened the strap altogether.
A skilled observer might have remarked a slight contraction of the corners of his mouth; none of his friends, however, noticed anything, with the exception of Madeleine, and all she said was: "You look so cross sometimes. Is anything the matter?" Late one afternoon, they were on the ice as usual. While Madeleine talked to Dickensey, Maurice practised beside them.
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