“What’s there to be depressed about?” “I said repressions, not depressions.” “Oh, repressions; I see,” said Anne. “But repressions of what?” Mary had to explain. “The natural instincts of sex...” she began didactically. But Anne cut her short. “Yes, yes. Perfectly. I understand. Repressions! old maids and all the rest. But what about them?” “That’s just it,” said Mary. “I’m afraid of them. It’s always dangerous to repress one’s instincts. I’m beginning to detect in myself symptoms like the ones you read of in the books. I constantly dream that I’m falling down wells; and sometimes I even dream that I’m climbing up ladders. It’s most disquieting. The symptoms are only too clear.” “Are they?” “One may become a nymphomaniac if one’s not careful. You’ve no idea how serious these repressions are if you don’t get rid of them in time.” “It sounds too awful,” said Anne. “But I don’t see that I can do anything to help you.” “I thought I’d just like to talk it over with you.” “Why, of course; I’m only too happy, Mary darling.” Mary coughed and drew a deep breath. “I presume,” she began sententiously, “I presume we may take for granted that an intelligent young woman of twenty-three who has lived in civilised society in the twentieth century has no prejudices.” “Well, I confess I still have a few.” “But not about repressions.” “No, not many about repressions; that’s true.” “Or, rather, about getting rid of repressions.” “Exactly.” “So much for our fundamental postulate,” said Mary. Solemnity was expressed in every feature of her round young face, radiated from her large blue eyes. “We come next to the desirability of possessing experience. I hope we are agreed that knowledge is desirable and that ignorance is undesirable.” Obedient as one of those complaisant disciples from whom Socrates could get whatever answer he chose, Anne gave her assent to this proposition. “And we are equally agreed, I hope, that marriage is what it is.” “It is.” “Good!” said Mary. “And repressions being what they are...” “Exactly.” “There would therefore seem to be only one conclusion.” “But I knew that,” Anne exclaimed, “before you began.” “Yes, but now it’s been proved,” said Mary. “One must do things logically. The question is now...” “But where does the question come in? You’ve reached your only possible conclusion--logically, which is more than I could have done. All that remains is to impart the information to someone you like--someone you like really rather a lot, someone you’re in love with, if I may express myself so baldly.” “But that’s just where the question comes in,” Mary exclaimed. “I’m not in love with anybody.” “Then, if I were you, I should wait till you are.” “But I can’t go on dreaming night after night that I’m falling down a well. It’s too dangerous.” “Well, if it really is TOO dangerous, then of course you must do something about it; you must find somebody else.”