“Is she,” said Miriam emphatically.
“She used to be always coming when I first came over, Scots wha—blow—got a pin, Hendy?... We shan’t have his ... thanks, you’re a saint ... his boys in the schoolroom any more now.”
“Are those Pastor Lahmann’s boys?” said Miriam, noticing that Gertrude’s hair was coarse, each hair a separate thread. “She’s the wiry plucky kind. How she must despise me,” said her mind.
“Well,” said Gertrude, switching back her curtain to lace her boots. “Long may Lily beam. I like summer weather myself.”
Miriam turned away. Gertrude half-dressed behind the curtains was too clever for her. She could not face her unveiled with vacant eyes.
“The summer is jolly, isn’t it?” she said uneasily.
“You’re right, my friend. Hullo! There’s Emmchen looking for you. I expect the Germans have just finished their annual. They never come into the Schwimmbad, they’re always too late. I should think you’d better toddle them home, Hendy—the darlings might catch cold.”
“Don’t we all go together?”
“We go as we are ready, from this establishment, just anyhow as long as we’re not in ones or twos—Lily won’t have twos, as I dare say you’ve observed. Be good, my che-hild,” she said heartily, drawing on her second boot, “and you’ll be happy—sehr sehr happy, I hope, Hendy.”