Where was the box of notepaper? The children must have been at it, the top had been jammed on carelessly, split at one corner. Of all annoying things, the worst is to have people pawing in your bureau; there isn’t any key, of course. How can a woman be happy if she can’t even have any privacy in her own bureau drawer? If George ever wants anything he always comes rummaging here first of all. The other day it was the little prayer book.--Why, George, what do you want with a prayer book? I thought you were an atheist.--So I am, but I want to strengthen my disbelief. I was beginning to weaken.--What a way to talk. George _is_ an atheist, but he believes in religion for other people: because it makes them more unselfish, I dare say. Yet, in a queer way, George has a pious streak. Perhaps he’s really more religious than I am.--The only thing I have against God is that He’s a man ... not a man, but ... well, Masculine. How can He understand about the special troubles of women? That must be the advantage of being a Catholic, you pray to the Virgin. She can understand. But can She? After all, a Virgin ... I _mustn’t_ let my mind run on like this, it’s revolting the things you find yourself thinking. From the bay window at the head of the stairs, over the garden and the sweep of grassy hill, she could see the water. Along the curve of shore, a thin crisp of foam edging the tawny sand. If she didn’t get off that letter to Miss Clyde it would be too late for her to come to the Picnic. The Brooks were coming this afternoon. It was Nounou’s evening off, too. What perfect weather. This lovely world, this lovely world. Oh, well, if George wanted the Picnic now, she might as well go through with it. As she went down, George was in the hall, lighting his pipe. He looked very tall and ruddy and cheerful: almost handsome in his blue linen shirt and flannel trousers. An eddy of smoke rose about his head. She halted on the stairs. “George! Don’t puff so much smoke. I want to see the top of your head ... I do believe it’s getting thin.” “How pretty you look,” he said. “I like the green shift.” He enjoyed calling things by wrong names, and the word _shift_ always amused him. He found words entertaining, a habit that often annoyed her. But this time she did not stop to correct him. “You ought to wear a rubber cap when you go bathing. The salt water gets your hair all sticky, and then the comb tears it out. I don’t mind your being an atheist, but I’d hate you to be bald.” He blew a spout of tobacco smoke up at her. It was extraordinarily fragrant. Oh, well, she thought, he’s not a bad old thing. He’s endurable. “George.” She intended to say, “I love you.” But of their own accord the words changed themselves before they escaped into voice. “George, do you love me?”