Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
dined with her hero four times in one week. That was on a Saturday; I’m glad to say that she hasn’t become democratic enough to go to these picture-houses, and there was nothing to do on Sunday. I told her she might ask Colonel Butler to dine with us. And, when he came, I took occasion to speak rather freely to him.
“I can’t help seeing,” I said, “that you are very intimate with my niece.”
“Oh, I’m devoted to Phyllida,” he answered.
“Then,” I said, “you’d cut your hand off before you did anything to make people talk about her.”
And then I rehearsed these dinners and plays. . .
“It’s not my business,” I said. “Phyllida regards me as a lodging-house keeper, but, if your intentions are honourable, I think you should make them known to my brother. Lord Brackenbury.” . .
Well, then he became nervous and sentimental. He wouldn’t compromise Phyllida for the world; he’d every intention of speaking to Brackenbury when the time came, but as long as he was living on his pay and the war went on. . . You can imagine it. He was quite sincere. I told you I liked him; the only thing was that I didn’t think him quite suitable for
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