They Were Both Beautifully Got Up - All Lace And Silky Stuff, And
Flowers, And Ribbons, And Dainty Shoes, And Light Gloves.
But they were
dressed for a photographic studio, not for a river picnic.
They were the
"boating costumes" of a French fashion-plate. It was ridiculous, fooling
about in them anywhere near real earth, air, and water.
The first thing was that they thought the boat was not clean. We dusted
all the seats for them, and then assured them that it was, but they
didn't believe us. One of them rubbed the cushion with the forefinger of
her glove, and showed the result to the other, and they both sighed, and
sat down, with the air of early Christian martyrs trying to make
themselves comfortable up against the stake. You are liable to
occasionally splash a little when sculling, and it appeared that a drop
of water ruined those costumes. The mark never came out, and a stain was
left on the dress for ever.
I was stroke. I did my best. I feathered some two feet high, and I
paused at the end of each stroke to let the blades drip before returning
them, and I picked out a smooth bit of water to drop them into again each
time. (Bow said, after a while, that he did not feel himself a
sufficiently accomplished oarsman to pull with me, but that he would sit
still, if I would allow him, and study my stroke. He said it interested
him.) But, notwithstanding all this, and try as I would, I could not
help an occasional flicker of water from going over those dresses.
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