"The young one. She had red cheeks. I never saw such red cheeks!"
"Oh," said Maurice; "that one? Yes. I saw her. Paint."
"On her cheeks?" Edith said, with round, astonished eyes. "Do ladies put paint on their cheeks?"
Miserable as Maurice was, he did chuckle. "No, Edith; ladies don't," he said, significantly. (Such was the innocent respectability of 1903!)
Edith looked puzzled: "You mean she isn't a lady, Maurice?"
"Look out!" he said, jamming the tiller over; "you were on your right oar."
"But, Maurice," she insisted, "why do you say she isn't a lady?... Oh, Maurice! There she is now! See? In that boat?"
"Well, for Heaven's sake don't announce it to the world!" Maurice remonstrated. "Guess I'll take the oars, Edith. I want some exercise."
Edith sighed, but said, "All right." She wanted to row; but she wanted even more to get Maurice good-natured again. "He's huffy," she told herself; "he's mad at Eleanor, and so am I; but it's no sense to take my head off!" She hated to change seats—they drew in to shore to do it, a concession to safety on Maurice's part—for she didn't like to turn her back on the red-cheeked lady with the two gentlemen in the following skiff; however, she did it; after all, it was Maurice's boat, and she was his company; so, if he "wanted to row her" (thus her little friendly thoughts ran), "why, all right!" Still, she hated not to look at the lady that Maurice said was not a lady. "She must be twice as old as I am; I should think you were a lady when you were twenty-six," she reflected.
But because her back was turned to the "lady," she did not, for an instant, understand the loud splash behind them, and Maurice's exclamation, "Capsized!" The jerk of their boat, as he backed water, made it rock violently. "Idiots!" said Maurice. "I'll pick you up!" he yelled, and rowed hard toward the three people, now slapping about in not very deep water. "Tried to change seats,"—he explained to Edith. "I'm coming!" he called again.