Edith, wildly excited and swaying back and forth, like a coxswain in a boat race, screamed: "We're coming! You'll get drowned—you'll get drowned!" she assured the gasping, bubbling people, who were, somehow or other, making their muddy way toward the shore.
"Get our skiff, will you?" one of the "gentlemen" called to Maurice, who, seeing that there was no danger to any of the immersed merrymakers, turned and rowed out to the slowly drifting boat.
"Grab the painter!" he told Edith as he gained upon it; she obeyed his orders with prompt dexterity. "You can always depend on old Skeezics," Maurice told himself, with a friendly look at her. He had forgotten Eleanor's behavior, and was trying to suppress his grins at the forlorn and dripping people, who were on land now, shivering, and talking with astonishing loudness.
"Oh, the lady's cheeks are coming off!" Edith gasped, as they beached.
Maurice, shoving the trailing skiff on to its owners, said: "Can I do anything to help you?"
"I'll catch my death," said the lady, who was crying; her trickling tears and her sopping handkerchief removed what remnants of her "cheeks" the sudden bath in the river had left. As the paint disappeared, one saw how very pretty the poor draggled butterfly was—big, honey-dark eyes, and quite exquisite features. "Oh, my soul and body!—I'll die!" she said, sobbing with cold and shock.
"Here," said Maurice, stripping off his coat; "put this on."
The girl made some faint demur, and the men, who were bailing out their half-filled skiff, said, "Oh—she can have our coats."
"They're soaked, aren't they?" Maurice said; "and I don't need mine in the least."
Edith gasped; such reckless gallantry gave her an absolutely new sensation. Her heart seemed to lurch, and then jump; she breathed hard, and said, under her breath, "Oh, my!" She felt that she could never speak to Maurice again; he was truly a grown-up gentleman! Her eyes devoured him.