Of course she did not know yet that Doug cared for her. But she had noticed some odd characteristics of his: the way, for instance, in the middle of his carefree rollicking nonsense, he would suddenly add something in quite a different voice--and then break off ... he was one of those _real_ men who find it difficult to show their feelings. “I expect he’s got a repression,” said sage Christine, to Christine her submissive and admiring confidante. She lies in bed, clothes half tumbled off, innocent, sensuous, lulled by thoughts of a bewitched today--a boat with a brown sail drifts across her window, dips again behind the wall ... her following eyes find it for yet an instant in the other window ... pretty boat with a brown sail.... Christine, enamoured of tomorrow, drops asleep. “DEAR OLD GLADYS,--I don’t know yet if I’ll say yes to an elopement with him--doesn’t that sound cool and depraved? But nowadays.... You know, I was never sure if even the Barkers were properly married, and yet they were none the worse for it. But Doug is a bit of a dug-out in some ways (joke)--he hasn’t even kissed me yet, though I can feel he’s mad to. He’s much too handsome to live, of course, but we’ve got over that phase when we much prefer an ugly man because they’ve ‘got more in them’--anyway it was invented by the wife of a hideous old monster who was jealous of her best friend’s husband. Ursula Barrison isn’t a bad sort, but serene and innocent and a bit standoffish. To see Doug nobly struggling to get off with her is like a man warming himself at a fire that’s gone out. Pretty smart, that--what? Oh, I’m coming on, Gladys my dear. No, there’s no dancing-hall here, though Doug and I jazzed a bit last night. Send me another of those yellow Jap silk cammies, will you? They show so when one undresses, ducking up and down behind rocks. Pink’s na-poo--only Fluffies wear pink, and I simply can’t fluff. We caught thirty-seven mackerel yesterday; it was glorious fun. I’ll let you know how things develop.... How’s Mac, by the way? Yours, “CHRIS.” She folded the sheet and put it in an envelope. Then, suddenly, she burst out crying: “Oh God, oh, please, please, God--don’t take it all away because I’ve written like that--it’s not _done_, nowadays, to pray or--or be priggish--but don’t, don’t punish me over Douglas.... It’s all so different and heavenly, and I love him, but I’m not sure even now if I believe in You.” Impulsively, she tore up the letter, and re-wrote it: “DEAR OLD GLADYS,--Send me another of those yellow Jap silk cammies, will you? We caught thirty-seven mackerel yesterday; it was glorious fun. Write soon. How’s Mac? No, there’s no dancing here, worse luck! Yours, “CHRIS.”