Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
old controversies. If I have failed in achievement, you must judge me on my intentions. Lying here, though I am not a nervous woman, I have been compelled to think of the uncertainty of life. Let us, Spenworth,” I said, “bury the hatchet. If anything happens to me, you must be our rock and anchor. You are the head of the family; Arthur is your brother; Will is your nephew—”
“No fault of mine,” growled Spenworth in a way that set everything trembling. He is obsessed by the idea that rudeness is the same thing as humour. “What’s he been up to now?”
“He has been ‘up to’ nothing, as you call it,” I said. “But I should face my operation with an easier mind if I knew that Will’s future was assured. When the war is over and if he is spared, it is essential that he should have independent means of some kind. It is pitiable that a man in his position. . . Do you not feel it—your own nephew? With the present prices, a thousand a year is little enough; but Arthur can do nothing to increase his directorships; and if my poor guidance and support are withdrawn—”
“What is supposed to be the matter with you?,” Spenworth interrupted.
“I can hardly discuss that with you,” I said.
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