Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
day. . .” she kept sobbing. “I know he’ll be killed.” . .
Well, he wasn’t the only man in the world, but nothing that I could say was right. . .
“I think he behaved very properly,” I said. “He did me the honour to ask my advice; and, if I see him again, I shall tell him so.”
Then the flood-gates were opened. I—tell—you—as I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t let me speak—that I gave no advice; I wanted him to proceed with caution, but I never even told him to wait and think. . . He did it entirely on his own initiative. What he quite rightly saw was that he could not take advantage of a young girl’s infatuation to marry her for her money. Phyllida really shocked me with the things she said, but I’m old enough to have learnt patience; it will not be very long before she begs my pardon and admits that perhaps a certain measure of wisdom may be conceded to age. . . In the meantime I prefer not to mix myself up in the broils and wrangles that seem a daily feature of life at the Hall. One makes a certain effort; and, after that, one has to leave people, in the homely old phrase, to stew in their own juice. . . I need hardly tell you that Brackenbury took her side. And poor Ruth, though I’ve learnt not to expect too much of Ruth after all these years. If, for
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