“You’re much too incompetent to be out on the ice alone,” he remarked as he buckled the last strap. A faint flush of annoyance rose in Jean’s cheeks at the uncompromising frankness of the observation. “What are your friends thinking of to let you do such a thing?” he pursued, blandly ignoring her mute indignation. “I have no friends here. I am--my own mistress,” she replied rather tartly. He was still kneeling in the snow in front of her. Now he sat back on his heels and subjected her face to a sharp, swift scrutiny. Almost, she thought, she detected a sudden veiled suspicion in the keen glance. “You’re not the sort of girl to be knocking about--alone--at a hotel,” he said at last, as though satisfied. “How do you know what I’m like?” she retorted quickly, “You are hardly qualified to judge.” “_Pardon, mademoiselle_, I do not know what you are--but I do know very certainly what you are not. And”--smiling a little--“I think we have just had ocular demonstration of the fact that you’re not accustomed to fending for yourself.” There was something singularly attractive about his smile. It lightened his whole face, contradicting the settled gravity that seemed habitual to it, and Jean found herself smiling back in response. “Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not,” she admitted. “I came here with my father, and he was--was suddenly called away. I am going on to stay with friends.” “This is my last day here,” he remarked with sudden irrelevance. “I am off first thing to-morrow morning.” “You’re not stopping at the hotel, are you?” He shook his head. “No. I’m staying at a friend’s chalet a little way beyond it. _Mais, voyons, mademoiselle_, you will catch cold sitting there. Are you too frightened to try the ice again?” He seemed to assume that her next essay would be made in his company. Jean spoke a little hurriedly. “Oh, no, I was supposed to have a lesson with Monsieur Griolet this morning. He is an instructor,” she explained. “But he was engaged coaching someone else when I came out.” “And which is this Monsieur Griolet? Can you see him?” Jean’s glance ranged over the scattered figures on the rink. “Yes. There he is.” His eyes followed the direction indicated. “He seems to be well occupied at the moment,” he commented. “Suppose--would you allow me to act as coach instead?” She hesitated. This stranger appeared to be uncompromisingly progressive in his tendencies. “I’m perfectly capable,” he added curtly. “I’m sure of that. But----” His eyes twinkled. “But it would not be quite _comme il faut?_ Is that it?” “Well, it wouldn’t, would it?” she retaliated. His face grew suddenly grave, and she noticed that when in repose there were deep, straight lines on either side of his mouth--lines that are usually only furrowed by severe suffering, either mental or physical.