“Mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “To-day, it seems, we are two very lonely people. Couldn’t we forget what is _comme il faut_ for once? We shall probably never meet again. We know nothing of each other--just ‘ships that pass in the night.’ Let us keep one another company--take this one day together.” He drew a step nearer to her. “Will you?” he said. “Will you?” He was looking down at her with eyes that were curiously bright and compelling. There was a tense note in his voice which once again sent that disconcerting tremor of consciousness tingling through her blood. She knew that his proposal was impertinent, unconventional, even regarded from the standpoint of the modern broad interpretation of the word convention, and that by every law of Mrs. Grundy she ought to snub him soundly for his presumption and retrace her steps to the hotel with all the dignity at her command. But she did none of these things. Instead, she stood hesitating, alternately flushing and paling beneath the oddly concentrated gaze he bent on her. “I swear it shall bind you to nothing,” he pursued urgently. “Not even to recognising me in the street should our ways ever chance to cross again. Though that is hardly likely to occur”--with a shrug--“seeing that mademoiselle is French and that I am rarely out of England. It will be just one day that we shall have shared together out of the whole of life, and after that the ‘darkness again and a silence.’.... I can promise you the ‘silence’!” he added with a sudden harsh inflection. It was that bitter note which won the day. In some subtle, subconscious way Jean sensed the pain which lay at the back of it. She answered impulsively: “Very well. It shall be as you wish.” A rarely sweet smile curved the man’s grave lips. “Thank you,” he said simply. CHAPTER IV--THE STOLEN DAY “ENCORE _une fois!_ Bravo! That went better!” Monsieur Griolet’s understudy had amply justified his claim to capability. After a morning’s tuition at his hands, Jean found her prowess in the art of skating considerably enhanced. She was even beginning to master the mysteries of “cross-cuts” and “rocking turns,” and a somewhat attenuated figure eight lay freshly scored on the ice to her credit. “You are really a wonderful instructor,” she acknowledged, surveying the graven witness to her progress with considerable satisfaction. Her self-appointed teacher smiled. “There is something to be said for the pupil, also,” he replied. “But now”--glancing at his watch--“I vote we call a halt for lunch.” “Lunch!” Jean’s glance measured the distance to the hotel with some dismay. “But not lunch at the hotel,” interposed her companion quickly. Jean regarded him with curiosity. “Where then, monsieur?”