"You'd better come ashore and rest," called Pete. "You'll get chilled standing half in and half out of the water."
"I—I can't come ashore very well," said Mary.
"What's the matter?"
She was flushing under her freckles.
"When we decided to swim around the harbor," she said, slowly, "I—er—slipped off the skirt of my bathing suit and tossed it up to one of the deck-hands to keep for me until I got back. And it's aboard the yacht now."
Pete stifled a grin.
"It—it wasn't a very big skirt," she added. "But it was a skirt."
"Oh, forget it," he advised. "Don't mind me. Come on out of the water."
But Mary was again studying the retreating yacht. At that instant she would have liked to have laid hands on Bill Marshall. Not only the skirt of her bathing suit, but every stitch she owned was aboard that yacht.
"I'm only a valet," Pete reminded her.