Patrick very nearly tripped over his own feet. “Ye gods!” he said. “Penrose, you’ve got nymphs.”
Harry laughed. “No nymph; that’s my daughter, Magda. You see how like she looks to her mother.”
Magda? She looked more like a Rose or a Lily than a Magda; the name had always reminded him of Viking maids with ropes of yellow hair. Magda Penrose wore her reddish-gold curls in a pompadour, festooned with a blue ribbon that matched her dress. White ruffles decorated the neckline and sleeves, tapering to a point about a foot below her narrow indigo belt. A white gauze shawl protected her bosom from prying eyes.
He watched her float down the stone steps toward the pool. She lifted her skirt high enough to reveal one delicate, bare foot.
“Surely she doesn’t mean to swim?” Patrick asked. “Not with us here?”
“Then perhaps we shouldn’t be here,” said Harry. “Yon field awaits.”
The sound of gentle splashing followed them through the gate.
William P Ashburner “The Lily Pond”