"Almost. But the boots are better for February. At least, they would have been last February." "It seems hard to imagine such a future for a place like this,--or such a past." "Things can be pretty rough, I assure you. And the roads are not always as good as they are to-day." And when the pump froze, she went on, they had to depend upon the lake; and when the lake froze they had to fall back on melted snow and ice. And even when the lake didn't freeze, the blowing waters and the flying sands often heaped up big ridges that quite cut them off from the open sea. Then they had to prospect along those tawny hummocks for some small inlet that would yield a few buckets of frozen spray, keeping on the right side of the deep fissures that held the threat of icebergs to be cast loose at any moment; "and sometimes," she added, in search of a little thrill, "we would get back toward shore to find deep openings with clear water dashing beneath--we had been walking on a mere snow-crust half the time." "Most interesting," said Cope accommodatingly. He saw no winter shore. "Yes, February was bad, but Mrs. Phillips wanted to make sure, toward the end of the winter, that the house hadn't blown away,--nor the contents; for we have housebreakers every so often. And Hortense wanted to make some 'color-notes.' I believe she's going to try for some more to-day." "To-day is a good day--unless the October tints are too obvious." "She says they are not subtle, but that she can use them." Well, here he was, talking along handily enough. But he had no notion of talking for long about Hortense. He preferred returning to the weather. "And what does such a day do for you?" he asked. "Oh, I suppose it helps me in a general way. But _my_ notes, of course, are on paper already." Yes, he was walking alongside her and holding his own--thus far. She seemed a pretty enough, graceful enough little thing; not so tall by an inch or so as she appeared when seated behind that samovar. On that day she had been reasonably sprightly--toward others, even if not toward him. To-day she seemed meditative, rather; even elegiac--unless there was a possible sub-acid tang in her reference to Hortense's color-notes. Aside from that possibility, there was little indication of the "dexterity" which Randolph had asked him to beware. "On paper already?" he repeated. "But not all of them? I know you compose. You are not saying that you are about to give composition up?" A forced and awkward "slur," perhaps; but it served. She gave a little sigh. "Pupils don't want _my_ pieces," she said. "Scales; exercises..." "I know," he returned. "Themes,--clearness, mass, unity.... It's the same." They looked at each other and smiled. "We ought not to think of such things to-day," she said.