Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
little expected him—or any one else, for that matter; the war has done that for us—that I’d given no orders, and he was shewn up. Norden—you remember him? They took him for the army, though I wrote a personal letter to the War Office. . . A man with varicose veins and three small children. . . Norden would have known better, but I’d no one but maids, who don’t know and don’t care. . . Colonel Butler was shewn up, still not quite at ease, and I made myself as gracious as possible. D’you know, I thought it quite dear of him? His mother had told him that he must always call at any house where he’d had a meal—even luncheon, apparently, in war-time; as Will said, when I told him, I’m glad there aren’t many wild mothers like that, roaming at large. . . He sat and talked—quite intelligently; I want to give him his due—; I rang for tea. . . He hadn’t learned the art of going. . . We got on famously until he began speaking of Phyllida; the first time it was “your niece,” then almost at once “Phyllida.” I said “Lady Phyllida”—I must have said it three times, but he was quite impervious. Then Phyllida came in and openly called him “Hilary.” . . They were dining together, it seemed, and going to a play. I try to conceal my palæolithic remains in dealing with Phyllida, but I did say “By
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