“The world not been going nicely?” said Elizabeth.
Agneta frowned.
“Oh, so, so. Really, Lizabeth, being engaged to an explorer is the devil. Sometimes I get a letter two days running, and sometimes I don’t get one for two months, and I’ve just been doing the two months’ stretch.”
“Then,” said Elizabeth, “you’ll soon be getting two letters together, Neta.”
“Oh, well, I did get one this morning, or I shouldn’t be talking about it,” Agneta flushed and laughed, then frowned again. Three little wrinkles appeared upon her nose. “What worries me is that I am such a hopeless materialist about letters. Letters are rank materialism. Rank. Two people as much in touch with one another as Douglas and I oughtn’t to need letters. I’ve no business to be dependent on them. We ought to be able to reach one another without them. Of course we do—really—but we ought to know that we are doing it. We ought to be conscious of it. I’ve no business to be dependent on wretched bits of paper, and miserable penfuls of ink. I ought to be able to do without them. And I’m a blatant materialist. I can’t.”
Elizabeth laughed a little.
“I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. It’ll all come. You’ll get past letters when you’re ready to get past them. I don’t think your materialism is of a very heavy order. It will go away if you don’t fuss over it. We’ll all get past letters in time.”
Agneta tossed her head.
“Oh, I don’t suppose there’ll be any letters in heaven,” she said. “I’m sure I trust not. My idea is that we shall sit on nice comfy clouds, and play at telephones with thought-waves.”
Louis shut his book with a bang.