THE CENSOR HABIT.
Not the least disastrous circumstance for which this war must be held responsible is a certain misunderstanding arrived at between Phyllis and myself. Fortunately the sky is clearer now, but there was a time when the situation looked extremely ugly.
This is a copy of the letter I received from Phyllis a few days ago:—
"Dear Jack,—
So sorry for you that you couldn't pass the doctor. Have just heard from Leo for the first time. He left —— on the ——, and after a satisfactory passage arrived at ——. They entrained soon after and are now in the neighbourhood of ——. What do you think? The —— s have occupied ——. Captain —— sends his regards to you.
"Yours, with love,
"Phyllis."
I only know one man in the regiment that Phyllis's brother adorns, and his name is Captain Nares. Even supposing that the name had been censored in Leo's letter, there could be no doubt as to the identity of the person to whom the writer referred.
So far as I could see there was one of two possibilities. Either Phyllis was involuntarily developing the Censor habit, or she was treating the exigencies of correspondence in war-time with a levity that in a future wife I firmly deprecated. Humour of this kind is all very well in its place; but these are not days in which we must smile without a serious reason. I determined to teach her a lesson.
"Dear Phyllis," I wrote,—
"Many thanks for Captain —— 's regards. I don't remember the name, but possibly we are acquainted. By the way, you remember that bracelet you so much admired in the window in —— Street? I really could not let you go on breaking the Covet Commandment for ever, so I bought it yesterday. I don't like sending it through the post at this critical time, so if you will meet me at the corner of —— Circus and —— Street at —— o'clock, on —— night, I will bring it along.