“They’re old enough,” he said, “but they’re all right. I’m going to put them on to my boots, so that they’ll be ready in the morning. I found them in a cupboard upstairs.” Instantly it occurred to Violet whose those skates had been. For more than a dozen years now there had been no skating at Stanier, probably the last person who had skated on the lake was Raymond.... Almost certainly the skates were his, for they were workmanlike blades, screwed on to the boots, whereas the rest of them used to shoe themselves with strange antiquated wooden concerns, or skates with keys and catches which invariably came undone. But Raymond had spent a winter’s vacation once at Davos, and Violet remembered his laughing at her, when one of her skates unclasped itself and slithered across the ice.... Somehow, with fantastic disquiet, she hated the idea of Dennis using Raymond’s skates. “Aren’t they too big for you?” she asked. “Lord, yes,” said Dennis, “but they’re better than nothing. Hefty skates, too. I wonder whose they were?” Mrs. Stanier put a small saccharine lozenge into her tea. “The lake has not borne for many years,” she said. “I think we used to have harder winters once than we have now. The last year it bore ... ah, dear me, yes.” The return of Aunt Hester from her tramp in the snow was a welcome advent. She professed herself vastly refreshed, and had a very pretty colour in her checks. “Nothing like a frosty air for giving you an appetite,” she said, “and they say that the microbes all get killed in it, though for my part I never believed much in microbes. Everything’s microbes nowadays: if you’ve got a pain in your stomach from eating what you shouldn’t it’s a microbe, if you covet your neighbour’s wife they’ll make it out to be a microbe soon. Give me a good strong cup of tea, Violet dear: I hope it’s been standing. What’s that you’re working at, Margaret? A shawl for cold evenings?” Mrs. Stanier drew in her breath with a sound of shocked sipping. “No, Hester, it’s an altar-cloth for Winchester Cathedral,” she said. “Well, I couldn’t see the pattern, and it looked to me like a shawl. And when’s that wretch Colin coming back? I thought I should find him here.” “I’ve not heard a word from him,” said Violet. “I’ve been expecting him for some days.” “Well, I shall have to flirt with Dennis till he comes,” said Aunt Hester. “Rather,” said Dennis. “There’s the telephone ringing, Mother. Shall I go and see what it is?” Dennis ran into the hall, leaving the skates which he was transferring to his own boots on the floor. “Yes, who is it?” he asked. There was a moment’s silence. “Hullo, is that Dennis?” asked his father’s voice. “Yes, Father.” “Well, tell them to send down to the station to meet the 7.30 train. I’m coming by it.” “Oh, ripping,” said Dennis. “I’ll tell them.” Colin rang off again without another word. * * * * *