"And you call this a civilized country!" says I, blazing with indignation. "Emily Elizabeth Dempster, do you mean to say that men and women—gentlemen and ladies—go down to the salt water and bathe together?"
"Indeed they do."
"I don't believe it! I won't believe it! If my great-grandmother were to rise from her grave and swear to it, I would tell her to go back again and hide her face. Somebody has been imposing on you, Cousin E. E."
"Believe it or not, it is the truth," says E. E. "Ask Dempster."
"Ask Dempster! Do you think I have lost every grain of modesty, that such an outrageous question should pass my lips?"
"Well, believe it or not, as you like," says she, "I haven't time to prove it; only it isn't worth while to scout at what every one does, and you are a little apt to do that, Phœmie."
"So, if I lived among hottentots, I mustn't object to rancid-oil on my hair—but I think I should, anyhow."
"Well, well; get on your bonnet, or the Dolly Varden will never be finished in time," says she, laughing.
I put on my beehive, and we both went right down town. On our way we saw a wire woman standing in a broad, glass window, with a dress on, that took the shine off from anything I had ever seen in the way of a dress.
"There is a Dolly," says E. E., "and really, now, I do believe it would fit you."