Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
I knew it would happen. There always is some kind of unpleasantness when you begin playing with personalities and taking risks with other people’s feelings. I don’t think I have ever spent a more distressing quarter of an hour. Oh, I was thankful when he said:
“Well, so that’s what you all think of me, hein? We-ell, what about a drink, what?”
I felt—we all felt—that he was really taking it in very good part. . . The men trooped off to a side-table. I made my way to Will in the hope of whispering just a word. . . He had rather taken the lead in this ridiculous game, and I wished him to be extra sweet to the Erskines for the rest of our visit. . .
“Well, I call it rather a frost,” I heard him say, as I drew near. “I’d back ‘Characters’ to break up any house-party in England, but everybody’s taken it lying down to-night. . .”
I was distressed, for I really thought we had narrowly escaped some great unpleasantness. And then I found that we had not escaped it after all. Sir Adolphus came up to see that the others were looking after me properly and asked if he might have back the pencil that he had lent me. I surrendered it, he looked at it, pocketed it—and passed on. The others sur-
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