He lifted his cap, and as he stood for a moment bare-headed beside her, she noticed with a curious little shock--half surprised, half appreciative--that on the left temple his dark brown hair was streaked with a single pure white lock, as though a finger had been laid upon the hair and bleached it where it lay. It conferred a certain air of distinction--an added value of contrast--just as the sharp black shadow in a neutral-tinted picture gives sudden significance to the whole conception. The stranger was regarding Jean with a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes. “That was a near thing!” he observed. Evidently he judged her to be a Frenchwoman, for he spoke in French--very fluently, but with an unmistakable English accent. Instinctively Jean, who all her life had been as frequently called upon to converse in French as English, responded in the same language. She was breathing rather quickly, a little shaken by the suddenness of the incident, and his face took on a shade of concern. “You’re not hurt, I hope? Did you twist your ankle?” “No--oh, no,” she smiled up at him. “I can’t have fastened my skate on properly, and when it shot off like that I’m afraid I rather lost my head. You see,” she added explanatorily, “I haven’t skated for some years. And I was never very proficient.” “I see,” he said gravely. “It was a little rash of you to start again quite alone, wasn’t it?” “I suppose it was. However, as you luckily happened to be there to save me from the consequences, no harm is done. Thank you so much.” There was a note of dismissal in her voice, but apparently he failed to notice it, for he held out his hands to her crosswise, saying: “Let me help you to the bank, and then I’ll retrieve your errant skate for you.” He so evidently expected her to comply with his suggestion that, almost without her own volition, she found herself moving with him towards the edge of the rink, her hands grasped in a close, steady clasp, and a moment later she was scrambling up the bank. Once more on level ground, she made a movement to withdraw her hands. “I can manage quite well now,” she said rather nervously. There was something in that strong, firm grip of his which sent a curious tremor of consciousness through her. He made no answer, but released her instantly, and in her anxiety to show him how well she could manage she hurried on, struck the tip of the skate she was still wearing against a little hummock of frozen snow, and all but fell. He caught her as she stumbled. “I think.” he remarked drily, “you would do well to sacrifice your independence till your feet are on more equal terms with one another.” Jean laughed ruefully. “I think I should,” she agreed meekly. He led her to where the prone trunk of a tree offered a seat of sorts, then went in search of the missing skate. Returning in a few moments, he knelt beside her and fastened it on--securely this time--to the slender foot she extended towards him.