No whisper escaped her, no glance, no nudge of admiring
or envious notice. On Steinmetz's arm she passed out of the tent; the
touch of her hand on his sleeve reminded him of a thoroughbred horse
stepping on to turf, so full of life, of electric thrill, of excitement
was it. But then, Karl Steinmetz was a cynic. No one else could have
thought of comparing Etta's self-complaisant humor to that of a horse in
a racing paddock.
They procured skates and glided off hand in hand, equally proficient,
equally practised, maybe on this same lake; for both had learned to
skate in Russia.
They talked only of the present, of the brilliancy of the fete, of the
music, of the thousand lights. Etta was quite incapable of thinking or
talking of any other subject at that moment.
Steinmetz distinguished Claude de Chauxville easily enough, and avoided
him with some success for a short time. But De Chauxville soon caught
sight of them.
"Here is M. de Chauxville," said Etta, with a pleased ring in her voice.
"Leave me with him. I expect you are tired."
"I am not tired, but I am obedient," replied Steinmetz, as the Frenchman
came up with his fur cap in his hand, bowing gracefully. Claude de
Chauxville usually overdid things. There is something honest in a clumsy
bow which had no place in his courtly obeisance.
Although Steinmetz continued to skate in a leisurely way, he also held
to his original intention of looking on.
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