Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
Everything went off too wonderfully. Perhaps you have seen my brother Brackenbury? Or Ruth? Ah, I am sorry; I should have been vastly entertained to hear what they were saying, what they dared say. Ruth did indeed offer to pay the expenses of the operation—the belated prick of conscience!—; and it was on the tip of my tongue to say we are not yet dependent on her spasmodic charity. Also, that I can keep my lips closed about Brackenbury without expecting a—tip! But they know I can’t afford to refuse £500. . . If they, if everybody would only leave one alone! Spied on, whispered about. . .
The papers made such an absurd stir! If you are known by name as occupying any little niche, the world waits gaping below. I suppose I ought to be flattered, but for days there were callers, letters, telephone-messages. Like Royalty in extremis. . . And I never pretended that the operation was in any sense critical. . .
Do you know, beyond saying that, I would much rather not talk about it? This very modern frankness. . . Not you, of course! But, when a man like my brother-in-law Spenworth strides in here a few hours before the anæsthetic is administered and says “What is the matter with you? Much ado about nothing, I call it. . .” That from Arthur’s brother
2
