"We'd better buck up.

Where's your French ?" Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book.

Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French.
He had found this was the only way to get her to do compositions.

And her diary was mostly a love-letter.

He would read it now; she felt as if her soul's history were going to be desecrated by him in his present mood.