“And so you want Cecilia to see you with your hair down,” I sneered.
“Men are too dense!” was all she vouchsafed me. “He’s a popinjay of a professional heart-breaker.”
“I suppose you’ll know what they’ll say about you?” I tried another tack.
“I know what they’ll think,” she told me, with her inimitable calm.
“If you have the nerve, it’s no business of mine,” I conceded.
“Felicia’ll be so busy scolding me that she’ll forget all about you,” she suggested, naïvely.
“There’s something in that,” I was manly enough to confess.
The boat now lay-to in the shallow water. Phillips hailed us.
“You’ll have to put your hair up,” I told her. “They’ve got no dinghy. We’ll have to swim for it.”
“And wet myself all over again? No, indeed; you’ll have to carry me,” she calmly announced. “They can come inshore as far as that.”