"Oh, so it is. Well, I'll go and do penance. Look your last on my manly beauty, Miss Martha. We're off. Which side of the house does your niece take after?"
"What do you mean? She's a Lacey to the backbone."
John groaned. "Then the last hope has fled. I thought that perhaps the ingratiating Trent characteristics might come to the rescue, but now, expect to see me return bald and disfigured."
"Come on, you lazy people," called Edna; "it's glorious."
"O-o-o, 'where corals lie, where corals lie,'" shuddered Sylvia, as she ran down the steps. "Just look at that mermaid. Isn't it fun? It is as poetical as those Elgar songs. She could just make up her mind to go down, and—go!"
"Well, shall we go too?" John offered his hand. She put hers into it. "Are you game to jump?" he added.
"In a life-preserver!" ejaculated Sylvia in smiling contempt. "Yes. There," meeting Edna's eyes as she floated at ease, "there is the poetry. Here comes the prose tumbling after."
Physical timidity was no part of Sylvia's nature; and now secure in the consciousness of the life-preserver, and that Dunham would take care of her anyway, and incited by the desire to appear courageous in his eyes, it was easy for her to take the leap. John jumped with her.
Despite her brave intention a gasping shriek burst from her as she struck the flood. She was prepared not to be afraid of the depth of the water, but she had forgotten its temperature.
"Oh, it's so cold!" she cried.