From time to time Puddle would write from Morton, and then Anna would say, recognizing the writing: ‘Is everything all right?’ And Stephen would answer: ‘Yes, Mother, Puddle says everything’s all right.’ As indeed it was—at Morton. But from Scotland news seemed to come very slowly. Stephen’s letters would quite often go unanswered; and what answers she received were unsatisfactory, for Angela’s caution was a very strict censor. Stephen herself must write with great care, she discovered, in order to pacify that censor. Twice daily she visited the hotel porter, a kind, red-faced man with a sympathy for lovers. ‘Any letters for me?’ she would ask, trying hard to appear rather bored at the mere thought of letters. ‘No, miss.’ ‘There’s another post in at seven?’ ‘Yes, miss.’ ‘Well—thank you.’ She would wander away, leaving the porter to think to himself: ‘She don’t look like a girl as would have a young man, but you never can tell. Anyhow she seems anxious—I do hope it’s all right for the poor young lady.’ He grew to take a real interest in Stephen, and would sometimes talk to his wife about her: ‘Have you noticed her, Alice? A queer-looking girl, very tall, wears a collar and tie—you know, mannish. And she seems just to change her suit of an evening—puts on a dark one—never wears evening dress. The mother’s still a beautiful woman; but the girl—I dunno, there’s something about her—anyhow I’m surprised she’s got a young man; though she must have, the way she watches the posts, I sometimes feel sorry for her.’ But her calls at his office were not always fruitless: ‘Any letters for me?’ ‘Yes, miss, there’s just one.’ He would look at her with a paternal expression, glad enough to think that her young man had written; and Stephen, divining his thoughts from his face, would feel embarrassed and angry. Snatching her letter she would hurry to the beach, where the rocks provided a merciful shelter, and where no one seemed likely to look paternal, unless it should be an occasional seagull. But as she read, her heart would feel empty; something sharp like a physical pain would go through her: ‘Dear Stephen. I’m sorry I’ve not written before, but Ralph and I have been fearfully busy. We’re having a positive social orgy up here, I’m so glad he took this large shoot. . . .’ That was the sort of thing Angela wrote these days—perhaps because of her caution.