Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
on his wife’s account; her position is not so secure that she can altogether dispense with a supporting hand, and I was tired of confessing to people that I had not even met her. . . Never can I forget, either, Spenworth’s triumph when for a moment Arthur seemed to be treading his path. . . My Nemesis for trying to hold my head erect and daring to reprove him. No, I did not hear what he said, but I am certain that he said it. . .
For several days—to my amazement, for I knew they were at Cheniston—there was no reply. Then I met Spenworth in the street.
“Oh, I say!,” he began. (You know that hunting-field voice of his?) “You aren’t playing the game with poor old Arthur, you know.”
“I’m afraid I must beg for enlightenment,” I said.
“Oh, well, you know, this is the first time the poor old boy has ever left the rails.” (I am always lost in admiration of Spenworth’s elegance!) “Dust his jacket for him at home as much as you like, but don’t make him eat humble-pie in public, don’t make an exhibition of him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“Oh, bunkum! Every one knows he tried to slip his collar, every one thought he’d got away; and, now that you’ve recaptured him,
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