We accordingly spent a delightful, never-to-be-forgotten afternoon on the river, rowed here and there, as fancy dictated, by two stalwart boatmen. Mr. Somers, in a sailor hat and flannels, occasionally took an oar himself, and even gave me a lesson. A dainty luncheon had been provided, which we discussed under cool green branches, up a deliciously sequestered backwater; then followed the row down to Taplow, and our tea at the inn: in fact, every item of the program was conscientiously carried out; and during that long summer’s day, in the intimacy of picnicking and boating, Mr. Somers and I made extraordinary strides in advancing our acquaintance.
We parted reluctantly at Paddington Station, full of plans for the morrow. We were to lunch with Mr. Somers again, and accompany him to a very private view of most lovely Indian paintings. Emma struggled hard against this second encroachment on his time, and struggled as vainly as any kid in the folds of a boa constrictor!
“Of course,” he said, half playfully, “if she had something better on hand, and was already tired of his society——”
And what could she answer? She could only murmur deprecating ejaculations of dissent, assent, and gratitude.
As we drove home in a hansom (a rare extravagance), exchanging voluble raptures, an obtrusive chill little idea suddenly got in and sat down between us.
What were we to wear? A serge skirt and a shirt had done very well for the river; but for a smart luncheon at a smart club, for an exclusive gathering at a private view, where possibly all the gowns would be carefully noted down and described in the papers, our now rusty black dresses would be, oh, so sadly out of place!
“It does not matter so much about me, dear,” said Emma, “but you. I am so sorry now that your best crépon came in for that shocking wetting last Sunday. Oh, why did I not take a cab?” she exclaimed regretfully. “And your poor hat received its death-blow. This is no climate for ostrich feathers—not like India, where you can wear your best frocks and hats for months without one moment’s anxiety, and when the rains do come it is not before they have given at least a week’s notice!”
“And that drenching shower, not giving one second—beyond half a dozen immense drops, and after that the deluge! However, I can curl the feathers up, press out my skirt, and, with a new pair of gloves, perhaps I can manage to pass in a crowd!”
Really, we did not present at all such a bad appearance as we emerged from our lodgings next morning, nor did we feel beneath the occasion, at our very pleasant and recherché lunch. It was only when we got among the present season’s new dresses, and stood side by side with the latest and most costly fashions, that our poor black feathers looked a little battered and draggled!