liked first-rate things, and she knew that there were very, very
few first-rate things in the world, and that those were mostly
French.

"Well, I'm afraid I like it," said Anne. There was nothing more
to be said. The silence that followed was a rather uncomfortable
one. Mary fiddled uneasily with the bottom button of her pyjama
jacket. Leaning back on her mound of heaped-up pillows, Anne
waited and wondered what was coming.

"I'm so awfully afraid of repressions," said Mary at last,
bursting suddenly and surprisingly into speech. She pronounced
the words on the tail-end of an expiring breath, and had to gasp
for new air almost before the phrase was finished.

"What's there to be depressed about?"

"I said repressions, not depressions."

"Oh, repressions; I see," said Anne. "But repressions of what?"

Mary had to explain. "The natural instincts of sex..." she began
didactically. But Anne cut her short.

"Yes, yes. Perfectly. I understand. Repressions! old maids and
all the rest. But what about them?"

"That's just it," said Mary. "I'm afraid of them. It's always
dangerous to repress one's instincts. I'm beginning to detect in
myself symptoms like the ones you read of in the books. I