Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
have done the same for Ruth twenty-three years ago, but she seemed to pride herself on her provincialism.
Now I wonder what you would have done. . . When Phyllida was nursing him at the hospital—or just afterwards—, he was always in Mount Street, lunching, dining; before they took to going about by themselves quite so much, we had all been to the play, he had seen us home—just like this—and asked me—just like this—whether I had my key or whether he should ring. . . There was no one at home; even Arthur was in the country. I felt I couldn’t suddenly freeze. . .
“I have my key, thanks,” I said. “Won’t you come in for a moment?”
He stopped his engine and came in. . . Now, I wonder what you would have done, if you’d been in his place? . . . He took off coat and gloves (he was wearing quite a presentable blue suit underneath), and I led the way into the morning-room, where I offered him cigarettes and something to drink . . . wondering the whole time, don’t you know, why one had done it and how long he would stay. . . With the coat and cap he seemed to divest himself of what I can only call the professional manner; asked me if I wouldn’t have a little of my own brandy, commented on some new
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