Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
fitting to be worn by another generation, trained in a different school, the lesson was not altogether thrown away. . .
I did not suppose that Colonel Butler seriously intended that I should improvize a dance at a moment’s notice, but I had misjudged my man. He had given his word, he said, and, if he broke it, there might be an unpleasant scene; if, however, I would back him up, he would “see me through” again. Almost before the princess was out of the house, one section was rolling back the rug in the drawing-room and disposing of the furniture. Arthur, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was dashing down to the cellar and up again, bringing wine that literally cannot be replaced; and, to judge from next day’s accounts, it must have been Colonel Butler himself who won over my rather unyielding cook. He has a gift of silver speech; the superior young man at the piano, who always left all arrangements of terms to his agent, if you please, sat with a bottle of champagne and a plate of sandwiches playing till four o’clock. . .
The relief was so great that I really quite lost my head. Colonel Butler asked me for the first dance—quite charmingly.
“Your manners are better than your judge-
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