“You who pretend to philanthropy!” mocked Herbert, mimicking her intonation of “You who pretend to write comedies!”
“Waste? To learn to save my life! And don’t you see I shall forthwith give away the spoiled costume to a poor creature who would never otherwise have got it?” And Olive, who was quite serious, fell to elaborating a facetious programme of “The Creamery Regatta.”
The regatta day duly arrived. Two bathing tents were erected on the beach and decorated with flags. It was arranged that the competitors should swim out leisurely together as far as they cared to go, then turn and race for shore. Herbert was chosen referee; he offered to take them out in a boat and then accompany them back, as a precaution, but Olive laughed at him for an old woman. Eleanor, entering enthusiastically into the fun, had ordered a silver cup from London, and was to present it to the winner.
But the day opened badly, with fitful weather; a gray rain, and thunder and lightning. They waited till the afternoon, when the sun burst out in sudden fire, and in a moment the great stretch of gray cloud was shrivelling off all around it like a burned cobweb. The eager combatants dashed into their dressing-tents, and, emerging as lightly clad as was compatible with the conditions, they plunged together into the great sapphire sea. Olive’s yachting costume turned out to be a pair of knickerbockers and a jacket, rather lighter than her ordinary bathing costume, and Matthew had begged off his waistcoat, and was only hampered by a white flannel shirt and trousers. The outward swim was an ecstasy; the water was warm and sparkling with patches of molten silver breaking up into little shining circles and reuniting; it sent a voluptuous thrill to the palms to cleave its buoyant elasticity, and the forward movement of the body was a rapture. Drawing in the balmy air with joyous breaths, Matthew felt an immense gratitude for existence. There was exhilaration in the mere proximity of Olive, with her lively snatches of conversation. Her lovely flushed face and dripping hair went with him like a mermaiden’s. The same thought struck her, for she began to sing jerkily with her beautiful voice snatches of Heine’s ballad:
“Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet
Dort oben wunderbar,
Ihr gold’nes Geschmeide blitzet,
Sie kämmt ihr gold’nes Haar.”
“Yes, but you haven’t got golden hair,” the man laughed, joyously.
Farther and farther they swam into the vast shimmering blue, and ecstasy made the pace brisker than they had meditated.
“Shall we start from here?” he asked, at last.
“No, not yet. I want a long race.”
They swam on. The brown trawling boats loomed plainer in the offing.