Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
wildered, but, as it is, I try to forget and I shall certainly not remind him of certain things that he said about my going to work behind his back, taking decisions over his head. When one has grown attached to a house. . . Is it not my frame and setting? Is not every corner filled, for me, with memories of the old days when the princess almost lived with us? There was an entirely meaningless explosion at the expense of poor Will, who very properly refused to be drawn into argument and went straight to bed.
“My dear Arthur,” I said, “sooner or later this was inevitable. When our boy married, we knew that we should have to go on providing for him. Is it so great a sacrifice that we should move into a smaller house, that you, perhaps, should have to work longer than you had intended? It is to establish our son in life.”
When the announcement was published, I invited just the family to a little informal dinner. They were extravagant in their praise of Molly—Spenworth in his hyperbolical manner going so far as to tell her that she was “chucking herself away”, as he elegantly put it, on some one who was not good enough for her. I should have thought it possible to pay a compliment without trying to be rude to as many other people as possible. . .
To do Spenworth justice, he behaved liberally
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