reception gowns, which had evidently been spoiled by having coffee spilled down the front breadth.  Sylvia had had the bold notion of dyeing it scarlet and making it over with bands of black plush (the best bits from an outworn coat of her mother’s).  On her gleaming red-brown hair she had perched a little red cap with a small black wing on either side (one of Lawrence’s pet chickens furnished this), and she carried the muff which belonged with her best set of furs.  Thus equipped, she looked like some impish, slender young Brunhilde, with her two upspringing wings.  The young men gazed at her with the most unconcealed delight.  As she skated very well, better than any of the other girls, she felt, sweeping about the pond in long, swift curves, that she was repaid for her ignorance of billiards.

Jerry and the young man he called Stub were openly in competition for her attention, highly jocose on Stub’s part and not at all so on Jerry’s, whose brow did not clear at the constant crackling of the other’s witticisms.  On the shore burned a big fire, tended by a man-servant in livery, who was occupied in setting out on a long table a variety of sandwiches and cups of steaming bouillon.  Sylvia had never encountered before a real man-servant in livery.  She looked at him with the curiosity she might have shown at seeing a mediaeval knight in full armor.  Jerry brought her a cup of the bouillon, which was deliciously hot and strong.  Experienced as she was in the prudent provisioning of the Marshall kitchen she was staggered to think how many chickens had gone into filling with that clear liquor the big silver tureen which steamed over the glittering alcohol lamp.  The table was set, for that casual outdoor picnic lunch, as she could hardly have imagined a royal board.

“What beautiful things your people have!” she exclaimed to Jerry, looking at a pile of small silver forks with delicately carved ivory handles.  “The rugs in the house are superb.”

Jerry waved them aside as phenomena of no importance.  “All of ’em tributes from Dad’s loving constituents,” he said, repeating what was evidently an old joke in the family.  “You’d better believe Dad doesn’t vote to get the tariff raised on anything unless he sees to it that the manufacturers know who they have to thank.  It works something fine!  Talk about the presents a doctor gets from his grateful patients!  Nothing to it!”

This picturesque statement of practical politics meant so little to Sylvia’s mind that she dismissed it unheard, admiring, in spite of her effort to take things for granted, the fabulous fineness of the little fringed napkin set under the bouillon cup.  Jerry followed the direction of her eyes.  “Yep—­tariff on linen,” he commented pregnantly.

The young man called Stub now sped up to them, skating very fast, and swept Sylvia off. “Here’s where we show ’em how to do it!” he cried cheerfully, skating backward with crazy rapidity, and pulling Sylvia after him.  There was a clang of swift steel on ice, and Jerry bore down upon them, the muscles of his jaw showing prominently.  Without a word he thrust his friend aside, caught at Sylvia’s hands, and bore her in a swooping flight to the other end of the pond, now deserted by the other skaters.