Part 13 (1/2)

They like to talk.”

”I'd like to choke you!” the exasperated father thought. But he cast a really frightened eye at Eleanor, who grew a little paler. There was some laborious talk in the small parlor, where Eleanor's piano took up most of the s.p.a.ce: comments on the weather, and explanations of Bingo's snarling. ”He's jealous,” Eleanor said, with amused pride, and stroking the little faithful head that pressed so closely against her.

At which Edith began, eagerly, ”Father says--” (”What the deuce will she say now?” poor Mr. Houghton thought)--”Father says Rover has a human being's horridest vice--jealousy.”

”I don't think jealousy is a vice,” Eleanor said, coldly.

Mr. Houghton, giving his offspring a terrible glance, said that he must go back to the hotel and take something for his headache; ”And don't keep that imp out too late, Maurice. You want to get home and take care of Eleanor.”

”Oh no; he doesn't,” Eleanor said, and shook hands with her embarra.s.sed guest, who was saying, under his breath, ”_What_ taste!”

Out in the street Maurice hurried so that Edith, tucking, unasked, her hand through his arm, had to skip once or twice to keep up with him.... ”Maurice,” she said, breathlessly, ”will you let me row?”

”O Lord--yes! I don't care.”

After that Edith did all the talking, until they reached the wharf where Maurice kept his boat; when Edith had secured the oars and they pushed off, he took the tiller ropes, and sat with moody eyes fixed on the water. The mortification of the dinner was gnawing him; he was thinking of the things he might have said to bring Eleanor to her senses! Yet he realized that to have said anything would have added to Mr. Houghton's embarra.s.sment. ”I'll have it out with her when I get home,” he thought, hotly. ”Edith started the mess; why did she say that about Mr. Houghton and Eleanor?” He glanced at her, and Edith, rowing hard, saw the sudden angry look, and was so surprised that she caught a crab, almost keeled over, laughed loudly, and said, _”Goodness!”_ which was at that time, her most violent expletive.

”Maurice,” she demanded, ”did you see that lady on the float, getting into the boat with those two gentlemen?”

Maurice said, absently: ”There were two or three people round. I don't know which you mean.”

”The young one. She had red cheeks. I never saw such red cheeks!”

”Oh,” said Maurice; ”_that_ one? Yes. I saw her. Paint.”

”On her cheeks?” Edith said, with round, astonished eyes. ”Do ladies put paint on their cheeks?”

Miserable as Maurice was, he did chuckle. ”No, Edith; _ladies_ don't,”

he said, significantly. (Such was the innocent respectability of 1903!)

Edith looked puzzled: ”You mean she isn't a lady, Maurice?”

”Look out!” he said, jamming the tiller over; ”you were on your right oar.”

”But, Maurice,” she insisted, ”_why_ do you say she isn't a lady?... Oh, Maurice! There she is now! See? In that boat?”

”Well, for Heaven's sake don't announce it to the world!” Maurice remonstrated. ”Guess I'll take the oars, Edith. I want some exercise.”

Edith sighed, but said, ”All right.” She wanted to row; but she wanted even more to get Maurice good-natured again. ”He's huffy,” she told herself; ”he's mad at Eleanor, and so am I; but it's no sense to take _my_ head off!” She hated to change seats--they drew in to sh.o.r.e to do it, a concession to safety on Maurice's part--for she didn't like to turn her back on the red-cheeked lady with the two gentlemen in the following skiff; however, she did it; after all, it was Maurice's boat, and she was his company; so, if he ”wanted to row her” (thus her little friendly thoughts ran), ”why, all right!” Still, she hated not to look at the lady that Maurice said was not a lady. ”She must be twice as old as I am; I should think you were a lady when you were twenty-six,” she reflected.

But because her back was turned to the ”lady,” she did not, for an instant, understand the loud splash behind them, and Maurice's exclamation, ”Capsized!” The jerk of their boat, as he backed water, made it rock violently. ”Idiots!” said Maurice. ”I'll pick you up!” he yelled, and rowed hard toward the three people, now slapping about in not very deep water. ”Tried to change seats,”--he explained to Edith.

”I'm coming!” he called again.

Edith, wildly excited and swaying back and forth, like a c.o.xswain in a boat race, screamed: ”We're coming! You'll get drowned--you'll get drowned!” she a.s.sured the gasping, bubbling people, who were, somehow or other, making their muddy way toward the sh.o.r.e.

”Get our skiff, will you?” one of the ”gentlemen” called to Maurice, who, seeing that there was no danger to any of the immersed merrymakers, turned and rowed out to the slowly drifting boat.

”Grab the painter!” he told Edith as he gained upon it; she obeyed his orders with prompt dexterity. ”You can always depend on old Skeezics,”

Maurice told himself, with a friendly look at her. He had forgotten Eleanor's behavior, and was trying to suppress his grins at the forlorn and dripping people, who were on land now, s.h.i.+vering, and talking with astonis.h.i.+ng loudness.

”Oh, the lady's cheeks are coming off!” Edith gasped, as they beached.