“You’ve ruined my collar,” said I solemnly.
“Your collar looks like a fat man’s at a dance in July,” said she. “Let’s give the poor trilliums a drink.”
She put the basket by the spring, dipped her hands in the water, and then let palmsful drop on the wilted flowers. “How woodsy they smell!” she cried, leaning over them. “Now I’m going to wash my face again.”
She was like a child. She buried her face in the water, and when she emerged the little curly hairs on her temples were dripping. “I’d like to wade in it!” she exclaimed. “I wonder if I dare!”
“Go ahead,” said I. “I’ll go down the road and wait.”
“That wouldn’t be daring,” she twinkled.
“Well, I’ll sit here and wait.”
She looked at me saucily, and laughed, shaking her head.
“Coward,” said I.
But she only laughed again, sprang up, and started rapidly away.