“I don’t think I like the idea, quite. I never did when I heard of it being done. Why should they send you their photographs?” “But what’s the harm? Why shouldn’t they?” “Darling, it’s I am asking you. I’m your mother.” “Well, if you ask me--” Doda walked over to the window. She stood there a moment looking out. She suddenly turned. “If you ask me, I don’t think it’s right to--Of course if you think it right to--if you’ve been reading my letters--” “Doda, I haven’t. I just saw them there. But I’d like to read them, Doda. May I?” “They’re private letters. I don’t see how you can expect me to show you private letters.” Rosalie went over to Doda and stood by her and stroked her hair. “Doda, I think we’ll look at it like this. Let me read the letters and we’ll talk about them and see if it’s nice to go on writing to the men, in each individual case. That certainly you shall do, continue writing, if it all seems nice to us, together, Doda. If you won’t show them to me--well, let us say if you’d rather not show them to me--then I’ll ask you just to burn them and we’ll forget it.” Doda stepped violently away from the hand that stroked her hair. “No. I won’t show them.” “Then it’s to burn them, Doda.” Doda looked slowly around the room. Her face was not nice. She said sullenly, “There’s no fire here.” “Bring them down with you to the breakfast-room. Your father will have gone. We’ll see Benji’s not there.” She went to Doda and kissed her on the forehead. Doda shut her eyes. Her hand on Doda’s shoulder could feel Doda quivering. She went to the door and at the door said, “And the photographs, dear. I should bring them too.” She had long finished breakfast when at last Doda came down. The tall, slim, beautiful and pale creature appeared in the doorway. She walked towards the fire, her head held high, her brown hair in a thick tail to her waist. She had a packet in her hands. As she began to stoop over the fire she suddenly uprighted herself and turned upon her mother. She said violently, “Perhaps you’d like to count them?” Rosalie said very softly, “Doda!” Doda bent to the flames and pressed the packet down upon them. She stood watching them mount about it. A half-burnt photograph slid onto the hearth. She gave a sound that was a catching at her breath and swiftly stooped and snatched the burning fragment up and cast it on its fellows. The leaping flames died down. She turned violently towards Rosalie, seated at the table watching her, her heart sick. That tall, slim, beautiful creature whose face had been pale and was habitually pale was in her face crimson, her slight young bosom heaving, her eyes, so often sleepy, flashing, her young hands clenched. “I call it a shame!” Her voice was high and raw. “I call it a shame! I call it wicked! I call it abominable! I call it an--an outrage!” Rosalie said, “Doda! Doda, I haven’t reproached you. I haven’t reproved you. If they had been letters you could have shown me, yes, then a shame--”