“Can’t help it,” said Priscilla, “If it amuses him he can go on looking at us for the next four hours.”
She gathered her dripping skirt round her and stepped into the boat
“Sylvia Courtney,” she said, “told me last term that her favorite poem in English literature, is ‘Gray’s Elegy’ on account of it’s being so full of calm. Sometimes I think that Sylvia Courtney is rather a beast.”
“She must be a rotter,” said Frank, “if she said that.”
“All the same, there’s no use our fretting ourselves into a fuss. We can’t get out of this unless we had the wings of a dove, so we may as well take the sails off the boat.”
She climbed across Frank, loosed the halyard and brought the lug down into the boat with a sudden run. Frank was buried in the folds of it. After some struggling he got his head out and breathed freely.
“I say, Priscilla,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?”
Priscilla was gathering the foresail in her arms.
“I thought you knew,” she said.
“I didn’t know the beastly thing was going to come down on my head.”