scarlet patches in the V of their blouses. To supply any defects
in the entertainment provided by the ocean itself they had brought
paper-covered novels, the two most popular illustrated dailies and
chocolate. The boy and girl shared _Roaring Chips_ or some such comic
weekly. The father and his gentleman-friend smoked their pipes. All
were placid and contented, extending their limbs to receive every
benediction that sun and sea air could confer.

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_.