“Everyone going in?” I asked.
“All but Marie,” she replied. “She’s too French. I think that swimming is more appreciated by Americans than by any other race the world over. Every healthy American loves swimming.”
“Here’s one that don’t,” I told her.
“You little prevaricator!” she exclaimed. “Run right along and slip into your suit.”
“I didn’t bring one,” I confessed.
“You didn’t?” She sounded as if she really felt bad about it. “Well, we’ll see if we can’t find one that will fit you. You’re so petit, I imagine you could wear a girl’s suit.”
“Absolutely not!” I declared. “My mother didn’t raise me to be laughed at.”
“Why, you dear sweet kid,” she laughed, “I have to laugh at you all the time: you’re so terribly unique!”
“Virtue in all things,” I told her, smiling. “But swimming isn’t one of my points of virtue—I regret to say. I never liked the water and I was actually uneasy on the trip coming over, because I really can’t swim a stroke.”
“I’d love to teach you—I think that would be just loads of fun.... And it isn’t every man I’d bother that much about, you know.”