Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“And that is how things stand now?,” I asked, as she came to the end of her story.
“That’s what he wants,” she answered. “Oh, but I can’t discuss it with you, Lady Ann.”
“My dear young lady,” I said, “that is just what we have to do—quite dispassionately, to decide what’s best. He is my husband, I love him in spite of everything; you love him too, I judge, and we have to put our heads together. You will go away with him, I take it?”
It was then that she began to cry. I knew it would come sooner or later. Convulsively. . . I have told you that she was nothing more nor less than a child. . .
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“To France? Next Thursday?”
It was no second-sight on my part, I can assure you. Arthur had arranged to visit Paris and Lyons—on business, I was told—, and the guess was natural, though Mrs. Templedown seemed to think I was some sort of witch.
“Yes,” she answered again. And then—really, you know, for all the world as though we were at a play: “Oh, don’t torture me!”
Torture her. . . ?
“And then,” I said, “my husband will write to tell me he loves you and has been unfaithful to me and is never coming back and I had better
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