Once having pledged myself to go, I feel no inclination to break my word. All through dinner mutinous thoughts support me in my determination. Having led my guests back into the reception-room, I pass into the adjoining apartment unnoticed, and, hurriedly putting on my hat and jacket, slip out into the hall, where I find Sir Mark awaiting me. Now for the first time, looking out into the darkening night, I understand what fear means. My heart sinks. What wild and foolish thing am I about to do? Obstinacy and the shame of confessing myself unnerved alone prevents me from turning back again, and it is with a beating, cowardly pulse, though an undaunted exterior, that I cross the threshold with my companion. As I have said, the rink adjoins the hotel, and a very few minutes brings us once more within its shelter. During those few minutes my usual talkativeness deserts me; I am silent as the grave. Sir Mark, too, makes no attempt at conversation. Inside, the laughing, moving crowd somewhat distracts me from my gloomy apprehensions. The bright glare of the lamps, the music of the band, which is playing its liveliest air, render me less fearful of consequences. Sir Mark gets me a pair of skates; he holds out his hand; I move forward; the crush is not so great as I had imagined the music cheers me. After all what harm have I done? I stumble; a merry laugh forces itself from my lips; all is forgotten save the interest of this new pastime. Can a quarter of an hour have passed away? I am chattering gayly, and clinging to my cavalier, in a fashion innocent, indeed, but rather pronounced, when, looking up, I encounter Marmaduke's eyes fixed upon me from the doorway. There is in them an expression strange, and, to me at least, new--an expression that strikes terror to my heart as I gaze. Sir Mark, unaware of his presence, continues to issue instructions and guide my quavering footsteps, until we are within a few feet of my husband. Loosing my hands then from his grasp, I precipitate myself upon Marmaduke and cling to him for the support he coolly allows me to take. Sir Mark, propelled by the push I have given him in parting, skates on some little distance from us, giving me time to gasp, "Oh, 'Duke, don't be angry. I liked it so much to-day and you said we would not start before ten; so I knew I had plenty of time. You are not angry, are you?" By this time--before 'Duke can reply--if indeed, he would deign to notice me, which I begin to doubt--Sir Mark is returned, and is now addressing my husband with the utmost _bonhomie_. "See what it is to be of a dissipated turn, Carrington. In default of more congenial sport I could not resist the pleasures of an obscure rink. I fear it was foolish of me, though, to put it into Mrs. Carrington's head; though I really think there are few draughts anywhere, it is such a lovely night."