They met more formally, presently, on the bottom of the sea. Brassid plunged in the moment he arrived at the surf, and went out and under with a long, strong push. He saw a face on the bottom. It stared uncannily up at him through the wavering green water. Brassid followed it and dragged it breathlessly to the surface. There she laughed at him.
“I—I—thought you were d-dead!” gasped Brassid.
“Not at all,” smiled the Sea-Lady.
“Why, how long were you under?”
“Not long.”
“It seemed as if you had been there all day!”
“My grandfather was a whaler,” said the Sea-Lady, winking the water out of her eyes solemnly, as if that explained her.
“My grandfather was an Indian-fighter,” cried Brassid, joyously, which was his way of saying that the one was as intelligible as the other.
Her laughter broke loose.
“Look at me!” commanded Brassid, suddenly, with that savagery which he had from his grandfather. “You are shamming—and doing it beautifully. You were in distress down there! And if I hadn’t come along—”