Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
I told her that, so far as I was concerned, I’d gladly risk all that; and she said she didn’t care who she married or what became of her and she wished she’d never been born. . . That,” said Will, “was nearer by a long chalk than I’ve ever been before; and you may take it as absolutely certain that, if she doesn’t hear anything of Butler pretty soon. . . She dried up and began to talk of something else when I tried to pin her to a day, but she was quite decent to me as we drove home.”
I could say nothing until I had been given time to digest his news. Whoever Will marries must have some money; he has earned nothing since he resigned his post at Morecambe. . . Perhaps dear Phyllida thinks a little too much about herself to be the perfect wife for Will, but it is not cynical to say that, if you look for perfection in woman or man, you will never marry. One has to consider the balance of advantage. . . I did most earnestly want to see Will established in life and settled down before those dreadful blackmailing Phentons could make another descent on us. And it would do Phyllida so much good to marry. . .
After all my excitements and alarms, I could not sleep for sheer thankfulness. And, when my tea was brought me and Phyllida of all people came in with it, I felt that now at last
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