Here Berty had established her grandmother on a rug with cushions, magazines, and a new book, and the ever-present knitting.
Thinking that the little old lady wished to have a nap, Berty left her, and, accompanied by a mongrel dog who had come from River Street with them, roamed somewhat disconsolately along the river bank.
This proceeding on her part just suited the occupant of a second boat, who, unknown to Berty, had watched her pink and white one all the way from the city.
With strong, steady strokes he pulled near the bank where the girl stood knee-deep in the high meadow-grass, then, with a hypocritical start, pretended to recognize her for the first time, just as he was rowing by.
“How de do, Berty—what are you doing here?”
“Grandma and I are having a picnic,” she said, in a lugubrious voice.
“A picnic,” he repeated, incredulously, “you mean a funeral.”
“I mean what I say,” she replied, crossly.
“Might a fellow land?” he asked, his eyes dancing mischievously.
“A fellow can land, or move on, or swim, or fly, for aught I care,” she responded, ungraciously.