Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
I telegraphed as soon as the office opened. Mr. Surdan is a man of business, and the appointment was settled before night. Next day I went up to help find the boy a comfortable home. Don’t be shocked now! I am simply echoing Will when I say: “Morecambe is a God-forsaken place.” Rooms were out of the question, because he must have some one to look after him. I was recommended to a worthy old clergyman, when everything else failed; and, though Will protested beforehand, he resigned himself when we reached the house. Just the father, the mother and two daughters, who seemed quite fluttered on meeting Will and hearing who he was. Quite pretty girls in a “left-to-run-wild” way. . . Which I, personally, did not mind. After a month of dear Hilda’s nakedness it was a comfort to drop into a world where you saw more clothes than jeune fille. . . Oh, I don’t think Will runs any risk from them; he does realize that love—in the homely old phrase—doesn’t pay the butcher’s book; and, after that, one has only to school oneself not to fall in love carelessly. But they will give him pleasant, bright companionship in the long evenings. . .
When I returned to London, Hilda was in bed. An internal chill. . . She wouldn’t see a doctor, she said, as a few days’ rest and warmth
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