It was a somewhat expurgated version of the affair that she outlined--thoughtfully calculated to allay the natural apprehensions of a temporary chaperon--in which the unknown Englishman figured innocuously as merely having come to her assistance when, in the course of her afternoon’s tramp, she had been overtaken by the blizzard. Of the stolen day, snatched from under Mrs. Grundy’s enquiring nose, Jean preserved a discreet silence. “I don’t know who he could be,” she pursued. “I’ve never seen him on the ice before; I should certainly have recognised him if I had. He was a lean, brown man, very English-looking--that sort of cold-tub-every-morning effect, you know. Oh! And he had one perfectly white lock of hair that was distinctly attractive. It looked”--descriptively--“as though someone had dabbed a powdered finger on his hair--just in the right place.” Madame de Varigny’s eyes narrowed, and a quick ejaculation escaped her. It was something more than a mere exclamation connoting interest; it held a definitely individual note, as though it sprang from some sudden access of personal feeling. Jean, hearing it, looked up in some surprise, and the other, meeting her questioning glance, rushed hastily into speech. “A lock of white hair? But how _chic!_ “It should not”--thoughtfully--“be difficult to discover the identity of anyone with so distinctive a characteristic.” “He is not staying in the hotel, at all events,” said Jean. “He told me he was at a friend’s chalet.” “And he did not enlighten you as to his name? Gave you no hint?” Madame de Varigny spoke with an assumption of indifference, but there was an undertone of suppressed eagerness in her liquid voice. Jean shook her head, smiling a little to herself. It had been part of the charm of that brief companionship that neither of the two comrades knew any of the everyday, commonplace details concerning the other. “Perhaps you will see him again at the rink to-morrow,” suggested Madame de Varigny, still with that note of restrained eagerness in her tones. “The snow is not deep except where it has drifted; they will clear the ice in the morning.” Jean was silent. She was not altogether sure that she wanted to see him again. As it stood, robbed of all the commonplace circumstances of convention, the incident held a certain glamour of whimsical romance which could not but appeal to the daughter of Glyn Peterson. Nicely rounded off, as, for instance, by the unknown Englishman’s prosaically calling at the hotel the next day to enquire whether she had suffered any ill effects, it would lose all the thrill of adventure. It was the suggestion of incompleteness which flavoured the entire episode so piquantly. No, on the whole, Jean rather hoped that she would not meet the Englishman again--at least, not yet. Some day, perhaps, it might be rather nice if chance brought them together once more. There would be a certain element of romantic fitness about it, should that happen.