Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
I did not like to take Hilda upstairs and leave them a chance of reopening the wrangle; but, when I suggested that we should all go up together, Will remembered that he had promised to meet a man at his club.
“I’m sorry,” said Hilda very nicely, though I felt that I really ought to apologize to her for the little scene. “I wanted to talk to you and him privately. . . There’s no harm in speaking before you, Lord Culroyd, because you’re one of the family. My father wrote to ask if I knew of any one suitable for a position which is being created in one of his yards—rather a good appointment. He would like to give it to a man who has been in the army, he says. I have the letter upstairs and I remember that the starting salary would be a thousand a year. I think it is the Morecambe yards.” . . .
My dear! . . . I said to myself, “Ann Spenworth, you must keep your head.” For a dozen reasons I wanted to get Will out of London. If Culroyd continued to haunt my house, I was thankful to get Will out of the way, though I cannot imagine that this ever entered Hilda’s little love-lorn head. And an appointment, when we had waited so long! Besides, London is not good for Will’s health. He wakes up with a head-ache and without an appetite—as a matter of course. . . .
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