Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
from London, and there was some sort of idea that he would arrive in time for tea. We maintained our absurd theatrical postures until the terrace became too unbearably cold. When I went up to dress, he had not arrived; but Phyllida was still sitting with her gaze fixed down the drive to the white gates of the lodge. . . It may have been love; but I could not help feeling that she was very conscious of the effect. . .
When I came down at half-past eight, there was still no sign of him. And then you can imagine the inevitable discussion! Was he coming or was he not? Should we wait or should we begin without him? Phyllida expressed no opinion; she sat by herself, waiting. . . At nine o’clock I took Arthur and Will on one side and told them that we must really make a concerted attack on Ruth; I was famished. . .
“He can’t be coming,” I said.
Unfortunately Phyllida overheard me and interpreted this as an attack on Colonel Butler’s good faith. . .
“He said he would come,” she persisted. Over one shoulder, you know. . . With a toss of the head.
“Perhaps the car has broken down,” I suggested. “There may have been an accident.”
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