I confess I still have a few."

"But not about repressions."

"No, not many about repressions; that's true."

"Or, rather, about getting rid of repressions."

"Exactly."

"So much for our fundamental postulate," said Mary. Solemnity was
expressed in every feature of her round young face, radiated from
her large blue eyes. "We come next to the desirability of possessing
experience. I hope we are agreed that knowledge is desirable and that
ignorance is undesirable."

Obedient as one of those complaisant disciples from whom Socrates could
get whatever answer he chose, Anne gave her assent to this proposition.

"And we are equally agreed, I hope, that marriage is what it is."

"It is."

"Good!" said Mary. "And repressions being what they are..."

"Exactly."

"There would therefore seem to be only one conclusion."

"But I knew that," Anne exclaimed, "before you began."

"Yes, but now it's been proved," said Mary. "One must do things
logically. The question is now..."

"But where does the question come in? You've reached your only possible
conclusion--logically, which is more than I could have done. All that
remains is to impart the information to someone you like--someone you
like really rather a lot, someone you're in love with, if I may express
myself so baldly."

"But that's just where the question comes in," Mary exclaimed. "I'm not
in love with anybody."

"Then, if I were you, I should wait till you are."

"But I can't go on dreaming night after night that I'm falling down a
well. It's too dangerous."

"Well, if it really is TOO dangerous, then of course you must do
something about it; you must find somebody else."

"But who?" A thoughtful frown puckered Mary's brow. "It must be somebody
intelligent, somebody with intellectual interests that I can share.
And it must be somebody with a proper respect for women, somebody who's
prepared to talk seriously about his work and his ideas and about my
work and my ideas. It isn't, as you see, at all easy to find the right
person."

"Well" said Anne, "there are three unattached and intelligent men in
the house at the present time. There's Mr. Scogan, to begin with;
but perhaps he's rather too much of a genuine antique. And there are
Gombauld and Denis. Shall we say that the choice is limited to the last
two?"

Mary nodded. "I think we had better," she said, and then hesitated, with
a certain air of embarrassment.

"What is it?"

"I was wondering,"