Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
that they were Mrs. Sawyer’s friends. Hoity-toity! Friends with a capital “F”. . .
Very soon it was “Consuelo’s” friends. Looking back on it all, one seems to hear a series of commands: “on the word ‘loot’, quick march; on reaching South Audley Street, halt and enter; on the word ‘love’ . . .” and so forth and so on. No, it’s not mine; Will drew a most amusing picture. . . But that is literally what happened: first of all, they were “Consuelo’s” friends, then they were all in love with her.
I have suggested that men of that stamp are incapable of being serious about anything—except the next meal; but any one who was genuinely fond of the poor woman could not help seeing that this formal persecution was more than a joke. Will came to me after one of her parties and said that it was high time for us to do something.
“Get her away from all that gang,” he cried; and from the agitation of his voice I could see that he was taking this to heart.
And, you know, it was rather dreadful to see that lovely creature with the tragic eyes standing like a bewildered child with all these young-old men baying round her. . .
“It’s easier said than done,” I told him.
“Uncle Tom Brackenbury’s going north
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