Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
when a young man shews a little politeness and consideration. As soon as supper was ready—he had prepared it with his own hands—, Colonel Butler asked if he might take me down. Arthur was with me and he at once intervened.
“No, no,” he said. “You’re a dancing man. Go off and find Phyllida. You’ll spoil her evening if you don’t ask her to dance.”
I should have thought it was hardly necessary to throw the girl at him like that, but after the way Brackenbury and Ruth had been crying over their lost sheep. . .
“It’s no use your thinking you can keep her for Will,” Arthur said, though I had never uttered a word. “Look at them—meeting. . . And now look at them—dancing. Come down to supper.”
I don’t think that any account of the dance was published in the press. I certainly supplied no particulars. But I expect you read about the dinner. I have been inundated with letters of thanks—the most touching, unquestionably, from the princess, who loved what she called my little informal gathering. It was not quite what I had intended, but the effect was good; when our friends saw us together—I mean Arthur and me, of course—harmoniously, lovingly. . .
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