Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“Because,” I said, “there is great and glorious news for you, and your old aunt is selfish enough to wish to be its bearer.”
You may be sure that she stopped her crying soon enough at that.
I told her that Hilary Butler had arrived. . . And about the accident; she tried to bolt from my grasp, but I contrived to restrain her. . . And the dreadful fright she had been wicked enough to give us. . .
“Oh, let me go!,” she kept crying.
“A moment more, dearest child,” I said. “You are both over-excited, overwrought. Would you not like to meet him alone first, without feeling that the eyes of all your family are upon you?” . . .
She is an impetuous, affectionate little thing. In a moment she was kissing me and making my face quite wet with her tears. . .
“We will go into the rose-garden,” I said. “Many years before you were born, dear Phyllida, another girl stood there with the man who loved her more than any one in the world. May you be at least not less happy than she has been!” . . .
Then I returned to the house. Hilary had collected most of the party, and I whispered to him that he would find Phyllida by the sun-dial. . . I am not so well used to praise from my
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