Just make up something nice and shove it in. It’ll be like a drink to me. . . . Well, I don’t know what’s to happen. We never fixed a time-limit, so this may go on for months. Sometimes I feel I can’t bear it—only last night I damned near had it all out. But then, if I do and she thinks the other cove’s warming up, everything’ll be queered: I shall be fired on the spot and my precious little bubble’ll become, as they say, disintegrated. Whereupon I shall seek the water under the earth. . . . At other times I’m afraid—terrified, Judy old girl, that the very next time I see her she’s going to say, ‘He’s won,’ and wring my hand and thank me for working Beringhampton up to the scratch. You see, she’s no idea that she’s shortening my life. She knows I’m out to marry her, but she doesn’t dream that I’m nearly off my head. I hide it all right, you know. Most casual, I am. And when she isn’t looking, I kiss her blessed gloves. . . ._ _She doesn’t ask me to dinner. That shows how little she knows. Of course she’ld ask me if she thought I’ld care to come. It just doesn’t occur to her, Judy. I admit she asks Beringhampton—at least, she did last time. . . ._ _I suppose you couldn’t write and suggest that she came to Biarritz. Wrap it up, you know. Say the bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the War, and all that sort of wash. You see, I can get leave in August, and what more natural or pious than that I should come and see you? Incidentally, that’ld show us whether Beringhampton means business. If he follows her to Biarritz, he simply must speak._ _So long, Judy love,_ _Punch_. _P.S.—Of course, it may be all over before August. I don’t_ think _B.’s going strong, but, except for Sundays, I never see her by day. From ten to six he’s got the course to himself. These cursed idle rich. . . . I tell you I’m seeing the Labour point of view._ _P.P.S.—What an_ histoire _this letter is! I’ve just been reading it through, and it’s shaken me up._ _I’m coming unbuttoned, Judy. Poor old Punch is coming unbuttoned at last._ Seven days later Miss Choate confided to Fairfax that she had heard from Judy. “Not my twin-sister?” said Punch, with a daring display of amazement. “The same,” said Athalia. “Why shouldn’t I hear from her?” “No reason at all,” said Punch, “except that she never writes. I’ve had six letters from her since she was married—that’s seven years ago. Mole says she’s a vegetarian—thinks it cruel to use ink, but, speakin’ as one who’s known her all her life except the first twenty minutes, I incline, as they say, to the view that she’s labour-shy. What does she say?”