Something to Worry about — P.G. Wodehouse

A GIRL stood on the shingle that fringes Millbourne Bay, gazing at the red roofs of the little village across the water. She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Just now some secret sorrow seemed to be troubling her, for on her forehead were wrinkles and in her eyes a look of wistfulness. She had, in fact, all the distinguishing marks of one who is thinking of her sailor lover. But she was not. She had no sailor lover. What she was thinking of was that at about this time they would be lighting up the shop-windows in London, and that of all the deadly, depressing spots she had ever visited this village of Millbourne was the deadliest. The evening shadows deepened. The incoming tide glistened oilily as it rolled over the mud flats. She rose and shivered. 'Goo What a hole ' she said, eyeing the unconscious village morosely. 'What a hole '