If one could look pretty after a ducking in a strange lake, Nora did. Her curls liked nothing better, and her cheeks pinked up prettily, while her eyes—they were as blue as the violets that listened in the underbrush.
“You don’t mind her initiation, do you, Mrs. Manton?” asked Wyn.
“Why no. In fact, I’m delighted,” replied the young woman. “But why the secret? I have been left out in the cold,” she said, genially.
“Only candidates are informed,” said Wyn, keeping up the joke.
“Was that really it? Was this a private initiation, and am I intruding?”
“All over,” sang out Betta. “The bars are down and the guests welcome.”
“Betta be goin’ up the hill a bit,” suggested Thistle. “This is no place for dripping chicks.”
“The sun would be helpful,” agreed Pell. “I don’t mind the water when it’s fresh, but I hate to get mildewed.”
“Hey!” came a call from somewhere. “Wanta get in again?”
“We certainly do not,” yelled back Wyn. “Jimbsy James, you’re a fraud. What ails your yacht, anyway?”