Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
yourselves?” Oh, yes, the most natural thing in the world. . . I reminded her that Will was home on leave, but the hint was not taken. Off they went. . .
If I were not very fond of Phyllida, I shouldn’t take so much trouble about her. . . And I always have to remember that Ruth is too busy painting and powdering ever to think of her own daughter. I suppose she feels that her looks are the only thing that keeps Brackenbury enslaved. . . What was I saying? Oh, about poor Phyllida. It is to my credit that I insisted on a proper settlement when Brackenbury was mooning about like a love-sick boy; she has four thousand when she’s of age and she’ll have another three when the parents die—enough, you will agree, to tempt some men. I happened to mention at dinner that this Colonel Butler had called, and Will became greatly concerned. It was quite disinterested, because I have always felt that, if he ever dropped the handkerchief, I could make a good guess who would pick it up. Will quite clearly thought, with me, that Colonel Butler was in earnest and that poor Phyllida was slipping into his toils. . .
An opportunity came to me two or three days before my operation. Phyllida—she was quite brazen about it—admitted that she had
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