A little family party, with an acquaintance or two added, sat in deck chairs (at twopence each) at the head of the pier.  Their complexions proved that there had been sun at Brightbourne in some strength.  Their noses were already peeling a little, and the ladies had bright 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.

“Go on!” said the boy, with all the laughing scorn of youth.  “We’ve seen them all already.”

“You can’t keep kids from seeing things nowadays,” said the father sententiously.  “Bring them up well and leave the rest to chance, is what I say.”

“Very wise of you,” remarked one of the lady-friends.  “Besides, aren’t all things pure to the pure?”

Having probably a very distinct idea as to the purity of many of the postcards which provide Brightbourne with its mirth, the father made no reply, but turned his attention to the deep-water bathers as they dived and swam and climbed on the raft and tumbled off it....

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” said the mother as the foraging party returned.

“We’ve got some beauties,” said the daughter—­“real screams, haven’t we, Mr. Gates?”

“Yes, I think we selected the pick of the bunch,” said Mr. Gates complacently, speaking as a man of the world who knows a good thing when he sees it.

“My husband’s a rare one for fun,” said his wife.  “A regular connoozer.”