Eve came out hesitating, her eyes smiling and tender as she looked at me; but a dark green cap covered her glorious hair except some wisps which ever bother her with their straggling, and the sun shone upon the wandering locks and framed her head in fine spun copper.
"Don't you think, Adam," she asked timidly, "we might go in here? It is a good tide—and I'm afraid I can't manage the float."
Eve does not swim very well, although confidence is all she lacks to make her a passable swimmer. And I was quite willing, but Elizabeth would not hear of it, promising that she would look out for Eve; and she had us all in the boat and rowing out before we could make our objections heard.
And no sooner were we well clear of the beach, than Elizabeth dived, and when she came up again,—it was some distance that she was under water—she called to Pukkie. And Pukkie, with supreme confidence in Elizabeth, stood up on the seat and dived over the side, and swam beside her.
Eve seemed to have more confidence in Elizabeth than she had in me, which is not strange, for I have observed that, in matters of skill or knowledge or judgment, a woman will trust the veriest stranger before her husband, although in this matter of skill and knowledge Elizabeth was well past me.
So Eve trusted herself utterly to Elizabeth, and she made some progress in her swimming. And we all floundered about there in the cool, clean water until Elizabeth said that Eve was cold, and then we all drew ourselves, dripping, on to the float, and there, but a little way off, was the Arcadia anchored, and her sails nearly furled.
As I gazed at her I thought I saw something queer about her topmast stays—a little thing. It looked almost like aerials for wireless. I asked Elizabeth about it.
She was looking at it too, almost with satisfaction.
"Yes," she said, "I see. It does look as if it might be."