king still, a suit of mauve
pyjamas made its entrance.

It was Mary. "I thought I'd just look in for a moment to say
good-night," she said, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Anne closed her book. "That was very sweet of you."

"What are you reading?" She looked at the book. "Rather second-rate,
isn't it?" The tone in which Mary pronounced the word "second-rate"
implied an almost infinite denigration. She was accustomed in London to
associate only with first-rate people who 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 constantly dream that I'm
falling down wells; and sometimes I even dream that I'm climbing up
ladders. It's most disquieting. The symptoms are only too clear."

"Are they?"

"One may become a nymphomaniac of one's not careful. You've no idea how
serious these repressions are if you don't get rid of them in time."

"It sounds too awful," said Anne. "But I don't see that I can do
anything to help you."

"I thought I'd just like to talk it over with you."

"Why, of course; I'm only too happy, Mary darling."

Mary coughed and drew a deep breath. "I presume," she began
sententiously, "I presume we may take for granted that an intelligent
young woman of twenty-three who has lived in civilised society in the
twentieth century has no prejudices."

"Well,