Ginevra does not blanch. 'Yes,' she says recklessly, 'but it is also
only eight in seventeen years.'

'Isn't it,' says Amy, comforted. 'And they have taught us so much,
haven't they? Until Monday, dear, when we went to our first real play
we didn't know what Life is.'

'We were two raw, unbleached school-girls, Amy--absolutely
unbleached.'

It is such a phrase as this that gives Ginevra the moral ascendancy in
their discussions.

'Of course,' Amy ventures, looking perhaps a little unbleached even
now, 'of course I had my diary, dear, and I do think that, even before
Monday, there were things in it of a not wholly ordinary kind.'

'Nothing,' persists Ginevra cruelly, 'that necessitated your keeping
it locked.'

'No, I suppose not,' sadly enough. 'You are quite right, Ginevra. But
we have made up for lost time. Every night since Monday, including the
matinee, has been a revelation.'

She closes her eyes so that she may see the revelations more clearly.
So does Ginevra.

'Amy, that heart-gripping scene when the love-maddened woman visited
the _man_ in his _chambers_.'