“Just the same, I’ll bet you don’t swim for a week.”
“I don’t have to.”
“All right,” conceded Gloria with a show of impatience. “Of course you don’t have to—”
“Say, Glo!” Again Tom’s voice mellowed. “You know I’m not—not forgetting your kindness. I always count on that,” he said a little awkwardly. “But you see how it is. If mother ever hears I spilled I’ll have the awfullest time getting her to believe that I don’t spill every day just for fun, you know. Mother’s a brick, but gosh! She can stew.”
“I know, Tom, and you’re just a brick, too, trying to save her.” Gloria always talked very slowly when a parent was under discussion. “I know how it is with my dad—”
“Oh, you’re dad is a peach.”
“He sure is. A perfect peach.” Every word was beautifully rounded and just rolled from Gloria’s lips like solid balls of tone. “I often think how your mother has to be father and mother, and my dad has to be both, just the same.” She stopped and almost sighed, but Gloria Doane was not the sighing kind. “Anyhow, Tom, we’ve got a wonderful pair between us,” she boomed.
“That’s right.” Tom shifted the basket again and the effect of the much discussed spill was not completely hidden in the frown that scattered with the effort, his freckles. “That’s why, Glo, I hate to worry mother.”
“Then take my advice.” Gloria laughed that she should indulge in advice. “Tell her about it.” Tom attempted to speak but the girl hurried on. “That is, tell her something about it.”
“Well, maybe.”