Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
because I do not know it. Should it not be enough to know that for days my spirit was crucified? And the end is not yet. . . I have lost the thread. . . Ah, yes. We dined à trois: Will and Mrs. Sawyer and I. She was fascinating, magnetic. For the first time Will forgot all about the odious clergyman’s odious daughter. . . No, it slipped out. That belongs to the unhappy Morecambe episode, and I really do not think it very kind of you to keep trying to pump me when I have said I prefer not to discuss it. . . When he returned after seeing her home. Will wanted to know all about her, and in such a way. . . I mean, if his voice and manner meant anything, they meant that he had met his fate, as it were. I could tell him little. For one thing, I didn’t know; for another, his excitement had gone to my head, I saw ten things at once and, breaking through them all, this splendid, untamed creature with the flashing eyes walking side by side with my Will. Such a contrast . . . and such a combination. . .
“Well, hadn’t you better find out something about her?,” said Will.
I promised to do my best, but one was sent from pillar to post in a quite too ridiculous way. I thought some one had told me she came from Buenos Aires (perhaps it was only Major Blan-
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