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PAGE 4

Winter Sport
by [?]

“I’m a fixture,” I announced. “Myra,” I said, as she turned a somersault and arrived beaming at my side, “I’m here for some time; you’ll have to come out every morning with crumbs for me. In the afternoon you can bring a cheering book and read aloud to your husband. Sometimes I shall dictate little things to you. They will not be my best little things; for this position, with my feet so much higher than my head, is not the one in which inspiration comes to me most readily. The flow of blood to the brain impairs reflection. But no matter.”

“Are you really stuck?” asked Myra in some anxiety. “I should hate to have a husband who lived by himself in the snow,” she said thoughtfully.

“Let us look on the bright side,” said Archie. “The snow will have melted by April, and he will then be able to return to you. Hallo, here’s Thomas! Thomas will probably have some clever idea for restoring the family credit.”

Thomas got up in a businesslike manner and climbed slowly back to us.

“Thomas,” I said, “you see the position. Indeed,” I added, “it is obvious. None of the people round me seems inclined–or, it may be, able–to help. There is a feeling that if Myra lives in the hotel alone while I remain here–possibly till April–people will talk. You know how ready they are. There is also the fact that I have only hired the skis for three weeks. Also–a minor point, but one that touches me rather–that I shall want my hair cut long before March is out. Thomas, imagine me to be a torpedo-destroyer on the Maplin Sands, and tell me what on earth to do.”

“Take your skis off.”

“Oh, brilliant!” said Myra.

“Take my skis off?” I cried. “Never! Is it not my duty to be the last to leave my skis? Can I abandon—- Hallo! is that Dahlia on the sky-line? Hooray, lunch! Archie, take my skis off, there’s a good fellow. We mustn’t keep Dahlia waiting.”

III.–A TYPICAL MORNING

“You take lunch out to-day–no?” said Josef, the head-waiter, in his invariable formula.

Myra and I were alone at breakfast, the first down. I was just putting some honey on to my seventh roll, and was not really in the mood for light conversation with Josef about lunch. By the way, I must say I prefer the good old English breakfast. With eggs and bacon and porridge you do know when you want to stop; with rolls and honey you hardly notice what you are doing, and there seems no reason why you should not go on for ever. Indeed, once … but you would never believe me.

“We take lunch out to-day, yes, Josef. Lunch for–let me see—-“

“Six?” suggested Myra.

“What are we all going to do? Archie said something about skating. I’m off that.”

“But whatever we do we must lunch, and it’s much nicer outdoors. Six, Josef.”

Josef nodded and retired. I took my eighth roll.

“Do let’s get off quickly to-day,” I said. “There’s always so much chat in the morning before we start.”

“I’ve just got one swift letter to write,” said Myra, as she got up, “and then I shall be pawing the ground.”

Half an hour later I was in the lounge, booted, capped, gloved, and putteed–the complete St. Bernard. The lounge seemed to be entirely full of hot air and entirely empty of anybody I knew. I asked for letters; and, getting none, went out and looked at the thermometer. To my surprise I discovered that there were thirty-seven degrees of frost. A little alarmed, I tapped the thing impatiently. “Come, come,” I said, “this is not the time for persiflage.” However, it insisted on remaining at five degrees below zero. What I should have done about it I cannot say, but at that moment I remembered that it was a Centigrade thermometer with the freezing point in the wrong place. Slightly disappointed that there were only five degrees of frost (Centigrade) I returned to the lounge.