Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
curtains I’d bought when we did up the house after Hilda Culroyd’s illness. Absolutely at home. . .
“How is Phyllida?,” he asked.
“My niece is very well, thank you,” I answered, hardly caring—at that moment—to notice the familiarity. “And what have you been doing with yourself since last we met?,” I made haste to ask.
“Oh, as you see,” he said, “I’ve turned taxi-man. Owner-driver. One in action, four in support and nine training.”
I had to beg for enlightenment. And I am not ashamed to confess that his explanation, when it came, greatly increased my respect for him. The father, one gathered, was an estate-agent and surveyor in Devonshire, highly esteemed, but neither a millionaire himself nor in a position to make his son a millionaire simply by wishing it. The boy had realized everything—war-bonus, wound-gratuity and the rest—and had invested in a car which he learned to drive himself. One always suspected that here was a fortune for any young man who was not too proud to take off his coat, and so it proved: the one car became two, the two four and five—hence his expression “one in action and four in support.” Now, I was given to understand, he was launching out more widely and nego-
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