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 shore 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 coxswain in a boat race, screamed:  “We’re coming!  You’ll get drowned—­you’ll get drowned!” she assured the gasping, bubbling people, who were, somehow or other, making their muddy way toward the shore.

“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, shivering, and talking with astonishing loudness.

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

Maurice, shoving the trailing skiff on to its owners, said:  “Can I do anything to help you?”

“I’ll catch my death,” said the lady, who was crying; her trickling tears and her sopping handkerchief removed what remnants of her “cheeks” the sudden bath in the river had left.  As the paint disappeared, one saw how very pretty the poor draggled butterfly was—­big, honey-dark eyes, and quite exquisite features.  “Oh, my soul and body!—­I’ll die!” she said, sobbing with cold and shock.