'PS.—Gladys has read the above: so one last word on the sly.
'Oh, mother, if you only saw her at this moment! She is sitting in the veranda—I can just see her through the door. She's in one of those long deck-chairs, with a book, though she seems to have tired of reading. I can't see much of her face, but only the sweep of her cheek, and the lashes of one lid, and her little ear. But I can see she isn't reading—she's threading her way through the pines into space somewhere—perhaps back to Twickenham, who knows? And she's wearing a white dress; you would like it—it's plain. And her cheek is quite brown; you'll remember how it was the day she landed from the launch. But there! I can't describe like Gran, so it's no good trying. Only I do know this: I simply love her more and more and more, and a million times more for all that has happened. And you, and all of you, and all your friends, would fairly worship her now. You couldn't help it!'
LONDON AND GLASGOW: COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS.
