A little desultory conversation having occurred—"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....