I’m coming unbuttoned, Judy. Poor old Punch is coming unbuttoned at last.
Seven days later Miss Choate confided to Fairfax that she had heard from Judy.
“Not my twin-sister?” said Punch, with a daring display of amazement.
“The same,” said Athalia. “Why shouldn’t I hear from her?”
“No reason at all,” said Punch, “except that she never writes. I’ve had six letters from her since she was married—that’s seven years ago. Mole says she’s a vegetarian—thinks it cruel to use ink, but, speakin’ as one who’s known her all her life except the first twenty minutes, I incline, as they say, to the view that she’s labour-shy. What does she say?”
“Suggests that I come to Biarritz. By way of inducement she adds: The bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the War, and all that sort of wash.”
Mentally, Fairfax consigned Lady Defoe to a resort where the warmth would be still more remarkable.
“Must be losing her mind,” he said shortly. “What ‘wash’?”
“Can’t conceive,” said Miss Choate innocently. “Never mind. The point is, shall I go?”
“Why not?” said Punch. “It’s about the only place in Europe I know where you can bathe in comfort without a fleece-lined wet-off bathing-suit and a sealskin towel. I shouldn’t faint with surprise if I rolled up there myself. I want to see Judy, and my leave starts on the sixth.”