“Or who would have done it if they could,” I added, severely.
“Or who would have done it if they could,” she agreed. “Not all women are so conscientious as to what they owe mankind.”
“Indeed they are not,” I put in, sarcastically.
She was on her knees, gathering her hairpins and combs.
“Let your light so shine before men,” said she, cheerfully. “A city that’s built on a hill cannot be hid. Don’t put your candle under a bushel.”
I was putting on my shoes—now fairly well dried—and my ruined collar, just to show I had one.
“I suppose you’re the vainest woman on the seacoast,” I scolded. I am the only man in all Lydia Massingbyrd’s acquaintance who never flatters her, and who from time to time gives her the great benefit of hearing the whole truth about herself.
“I suppose I am, and good reason, too;” and there was some heat in her voice. Her back was toward me; all I could see of her was a mass of silvery gold.
“Now, what shall I do?” she asked. “There’s plenty of time to put up my hair any which way—it would look horrid—I look so nice like this—now, what would you do?”
“You ought to put it up,” I conclusively told her. “It’s an indecent exposure. One would think, to look at you, that you were playing tableaux of Lady Godiva.”