Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
don’t tell any of them what I’m doing,” he begged.
Do you know, that was the only jarring note. . . The first recognition, of course, was a shock. “D.S.O. Taxi-driver,” don’t you know? In some strange way it grates. . . Having taken the plunge, our young friend, I felt, was entitled to the highest credit, and anything like false shame would have been discordant.
“They would be the first,” I said, “to join me in applauding your resolution and hoping for your success.”
“But I want it to be a surprise,” he said.
At that, my heart sank.
“But why?,” I asked.
“For Phyllida’s sake,” he answered. “I’ve not seen her since that week-end at the Hall, I’ve not written to her; and she can’t write to me, because she doesn’t know where I am. I presume she’s not engaged, because I’ve seen no announcement of it, but I don’t want to do anything that may stand in her light. If my present scheme fails, I shall have to start on something else; if it succeeds—and when it succeeds—, it will be time enough for me to see what’s happened to her. I’ve never forgotten our talk. If I didn’t love a girl, I might cheerfully marry her for her money; but, when I do
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