Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“Not that, by any means,” I told her, “but, at his age, a man has to be careful.”
We were still at work on the list when her maid came in and whispered that she had to dress and be out to dinner in half an hour. She was, I understand, going to a dance.
“Not with Arthur!” I said.
Oh no! She was going with some friend of her husband. I told her that, if Arthur was ever persuaded or even allowed to stay up after midnight, one paid for it next day. . . She asked if I would not wait with her while she dressed, but I was glad to escape while the maid was still in the room. The parting, had we been by ourselves, must inevitably have been difficult. As it was, we just shook hands. . .
I honestly cannot tell you whether I expected to hear anything more. I did not know what to think and was trying to keep my mind a blank. . . She came next day, when Arthur was out; it was pleasant to feel that she knew more of his movements than I did! We—my maid and I—were upstairs, looking through Arthur’s clothes before packing them to go abroad with him. I sent the maid out of the room and asked if Mrs. Templedown would mind coming up to me. And, when she came, I added practice to theory. Until you do it, you’re hardly conscious of it; but you cannot
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