Father’s sarcasms have had very high velocity of late. He said this morning, for example, apropos of a very harmless young man who brought me back from the theatre and whom I was foolish enough to ask in for a whisky and soda, that if girls looked at men with the eyes of men the world would come to an end, because there would be no marriages. I replied that I supposed the effect would not be far different if men looked at women with the eyes of women; which he would of course have himself included if he was not eager to score off me. Not that this young man had any more designs on me than the rest of his sex. (I don’t count Horace.) Never was a girl so unembarrassed by suitors as I or more willing to be so. But it is part of father’s humour to pretend that I hunt them and that I catch only the most detrimental. How he would behave if I really got engaged I often wonder. Probably he would play the game. Write as soon as you can—or telegraph if you like.—Yours, HAZEL CXXXIX NESTA ROSSITER TO HAZEL BARRANCE DARLING HAZEL,—You are an angel to come to the rescue like this and I accept gladly. Fred will be so much relieved too, and I am sure he deserves his holiday.—Yours, NESTA _P.S._—Quite a lot of young men have, from time to time, been seen in the neighbourhood. CXL NESTA ROSSITER TO LADY SANDYS DEAR AGATHA,—My cousin Hazel Barrance is going to look after the children and Emily—who, as you probably know, is about to marry Urible—until I come back. (Fred is off to his golf.) It is very sporting of her and I want you to see that she has a little amusement. She plays tennis too well and pretends to hate men, so everything is easy for you. I long to get back again. Kiss your fat Barbara for me.—Yours, NESTA CXLI LADY SANDYS TO NESTA ROSSITER DEAR NESTA,—I will do what I can for your cousin. Jack is bringing several of his friends down for a home-made lawn-tennis tournament next week-end; and that will be a start. Two or three of the Wimbledon tournament players will be among them, we hope. Your Tony and Cyril were here yesterday, and in consequence the garden hasn’t a single trace of fruit left.—Yours, AGATHA CXLII ROY BARRANCE TO CLEMENCY POWER