# Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3818/The Censor Habit

THE CENSOR HABIT.
Not the least disastrous circumstance for which this war must be held responsible is a certain misunderstanding arrived at between Phyllis and myself. Fortunately the sky is clearer now, but there was a time when the situation looked extremely ugly.
This is a copy of the letter I received from Phyllis a few days ago:—
   "Dear Jack,—So sorry for you that you couldn't pass the doctor. Have just heard from Leo for the first time. He left ——— on the ——— and after a satisfactory passage arrived at ———. They entrained soon after and are now in the neighbourhood of ———. What do you think? The ———s have occupied ———. Captain ——— sends his regards to you.
   "Yours, with love,
   "Phyllis."
I only know one man in the regiment that Phyllis's brother adorns, and his name is Captain Nares. Even supposing that the name had been censored in Leo's letter, there could be no doubt as to the identity of the person to whom the writer referred.
So far as I could see there was one of two possibilities. Either Phyllis was involuntarily developing the Censor habit, or she was treating the exigencies of correspondence in war-time with a levity that in a future wife I firmly deprecated. Humour of this kind is all very well in its place; but these are not days in which we must smile without a serious reason. I determined to teach her a lesson.
   "Dear Phyllis," I wrote,—"Many thanks for Captain ———'s regards. I don't remember the name, but possibly we are axquainted. By the way, you remember that bracelet you so much admired in the window in ——— Street? I really could not let you go on breaking the Covet Commandment for ever, so I bought it yesterday. I don't like sending it through the post at this critical time, so if you will meet me at the corner of ——— Circus and ——— Street at ——— o'clock, on ——— night, I will bring it along.
   "Yours ever,
   "Jack."
Knowing her as I do, I thought that this, if anything, would bring Phyllis to her senses. On the other hand, she appeared to look on it as a kind of challenge, and sent me the following reply:—
   "Dear Jack,—Thanks very much for your nice thought. But you must have mistaken the shop. I'll tell you why. Only this morning I was gazing at the very bracelet, when who should come up but ———. He's an awfully nice fellow, and very determined. When I told him what I was looking at, he actually suggested buying me the bracelet. Of course I said that no lady would dream of accepting a present like that, but he wouldn't hear of a refusal and simply pushed the darling thing into my hand. I am meeting him at the ———'s at luncheon on Friday. So sorry you won't be there.
   "Yours ever,
   "Phyllis."
In reply to which I wrote:—
   "Dear Phyllis,—You'd better marry ———.
   "Jack."
Phyllis wrote back:—
   "Sorry, shan't be able to now. ——— has just been called up, and sails from ——— for ——— on ———. So perhaps you and I had better be engaged again. I'm longing for a bracelet.
   "Phyllis."
There was only one way of answering this superb piece of impudence. I enclosed a blank sheet of paper to Phyllis, signifying my complete indifference.
Her still more negative answer was an envelope addressed to me with no enclosure at all.
To this I replied by not replying.
And here, by all the laws of sequence, our correspondence should have been brought to a standstill. I calculated, however, that when the postman delivered my phantom communication next morning Phyllis would not remain twiddling her thumbs for long.
Sure enough, about 9 a.m. I received this wire:
   "Regret your letter of apology intercepted by Censor. Will take same for granted in consideration of war-time. All is forgiven. Call here this evening with bracelet.—Phyllis."