There's a lady at
our boarding-house," said one of the acquaintances, "who reads your
hand wonderfully," a languid argument following on palmistry, in which
one of the gentlemen disbelieved, but the other had had extraordinary
experiences of the accuracy of the science--the mother of the boy
and girl suddenly remembered that not yet had postcards been sent to
Auntie and Uncle, Gus and Beatty, Mr. Brown and Mrs. Venning.

"We promised, you know," she said guiltily.

"Better late than never," said the father's friend jocularly.

"That's right," said the father.

"Come along," said the gentleman-friend to the boy and girl, "we'll go
and choose the cards. There's a stall close by," and off they started.

"Don't let them see everything," the prudent mother called out, having
some acquaintance with the physical trend of the moment in postcard
humour, which has lost nothing in the general moral enfranchisement
brought about by the War, one of the most notable achievements of
which is the death and burial of _Mrs. Grundy_.

"Go on!" said the boy, with all the laughing scorn of youth. "We've
seen them all already."

"You can't keep kids from seeing things nowadays," said the father
sententiously. "Bring them up well and leave the rest to chance, is
what I say."

"Very wise of you," remarked one of the lady-friends. "Besides, aren't
all things pure to the pure?"

Having probably a very distinct idea as to the purity of many of the
postcards which provide Brightbourne with its mirth, the father made
no reply, but turned his attention to the deep-water bathers as they
dived and swam and climbed on the raft and tumbled off it....

"Well, let's see what you've got," said the mother as the foraging
party returned.

"We've got some beauties," said the daughter--"real screams, haven't
we, Mr. Gates?"

"Yes, I think we selected the pick of the bunch," said Mr. Gates
complacently, speaking as a man of the world who knows a good thing
when he sees it.

"My husband's a rare one for fun," said his wife. "A regular
connoozer."

"There's a pretty girl at the postcard place," said the boy. "Mr.
Gates didn't half get off with her, did you?"

Mr. Gates laughed the laugh of triumph.

"She's not bad-looking," he said, "but not quite my sort. Still--"
He stroked his moustache.

"Now, Fred," said Mrs. Gates archly, "that'll do; let's see the
cards."

"This one," said the girl, "is for Gus. He's been called up, you
know, so w