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.
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