Kedzie was so angry at herself and everybody else that she flung off his hands and snapped, “Quit it, dog on it!”
Jim Dyckman quit it. He had for his pains an insult and a suit of clothes so drenched that he had to go back to his yacht, running the gantlet of a hundred ridicules.
When he vanished Kedzie found herself in garments doubly clinging from being soaked. She was ashamed now, and hid her face in her arm.
Charity Coe took pity on her, and before the jealous Charity could check the generous Charity she had stepped forward and thrown about the girl's shoulders a light wrap she carried. She led the child to the other wood-nymphs, and they took her back into the shrubbery.
“Wait till you hear what Miss Silsby's gotta say!” said one dryad, and another added:
“Woisse than that is this: you know who that was you flang out at so regardless?”
“I don't know, and I don't care,” sobbed Kedzie.
“You would care if you was wise to who His Nibs was!”
“Who was it?” Kedzie gasped.
“Jim Dyckman—no less! You was right in his arms, and you hadda go an' biff him.”