Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
for nearly two hours longer. I won’t say “not speaking a word”, but I can say “not finishing a sentence.” Bewildered. . . Then she went away, and I rang for my maid. I never heard from her again. On Thursday—the Thursday—Arthur found his suit-case and kit-bag packed and labelled in the hall. “I don’t want all this,” he said, “for one night.” . . And he was back again in three days. I happen to know that he went alone and returned alone—and was alone in Paris. . .
I was talking about the diary, was I not? It is not cheerful reading, and much of it is dull. This entry in question: “Arthur returned from France tired and depressed, but very glad to be home again. . .” It does not mean much. . .
To any one else. . .
I am not crying! I am simply worn-out. . . ! Oh, my dear, I am too old for this kind of thing, apart from the long agony of humiliation. Arthur must send me right away for a complete change. He can afford it now. . .
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