“Capital performance, capital,” Mr. Callamay was saying in his deep voice.
The victor wriggled with embarrassment. She stood with her hands behind her back, rubbing one foot nervously on the other. Her wet bathing-dress shone, a torso of black polished marble.
“Very good indeed,” said Lord Moleyn. His voice seemed to come from just behind his teeth, a toothy voice. It was as though a dog should suddenly begin to speak. He smiled again, Mr. Callamay readjusted his spectacles.
“When I say ‘Go,’ go. Go!”
Splash! The third heat had started.
“Do you know, I never could learn to swim,” said Mrs. Budge.
“Really?”
“But I used to be able to float.”
Denis imagined her floating—up and down, up and down on a great green swell. A blown black bladder; no, that wasn’t good, that wasn’t good at all. A new winner was being congratulated. She was atrociously stubby and fat. The last one, long and harmoniously, continuously curved from knee to breast, had been an Eve by Cranach; but this, this one was a bad Rubens.
“...go—go—go!” Henry Wimbush’s polite level voice once more pronounced the formula. Another batch of young ladies dived in.