Paul stood considering her. He had an idea, but he was in truth rather frightened of it. It seemed to be going too far. But his desire won the battle with his caution. "Would you give me a photograph of yourself to take to Cambridge?" he asked.
"I haven't a good one," she said.
"But you've something—a snapshot, anything," he pressed eagerly.
She smiled radiantly and suddenly. "I've a rubbishy old thing they took on the river at Hampton Court last August," she said, "but my hair was down then."
"That'll be lovely!" he cried. "Do give me that."
"How? Shall I send it you?"
Paul's letters were not many, and fairly common property at the family breakfast table. He sought for an escape from that. "Will you be at the prayer meeting to-night?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Well, so shall I. In fact, I'm leading it. Write me a little letter and give it me afterwards, will you?"
She nodded. Neither of them were aware of incongruity. Possibly they were right, and there was none.