Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
Though I called myself a total stranger, he knew very well who I was; indeed he told me that he had always wanted to meet Brackenbury and Spenworth (the Cheniston Romneys were, of course, his excuse). . . We arranged a night . . . though, when the time came, there was not more than the three of us. My relations with Spenworth are not so cordial that I derive the least pleasure from seeing him at my table; and one truly honestly never knows how he is going to behave. Brackenbury. . . If you do not want to accept an invitation, it is surely possible to decline it civilly. . .
“That fellow!,” cried Brackenbury. “He ought to be interned.”
“You really must not talk such nonsense,” I said. “He is as loyal as you are.”
“I wouldn’t touch him with a pole before the war,” said Brackenbury with his wonted elegance. “But now, when even his best friends refuse to meet him—”
“Exactly,” I interrupted. “You would like him to feel that that is our standard of sincerity and good-will.”
“But how is it your concern?,” he asked. “You’ve kept clear of that gang in the past, so why dirty your hands with it now? If you fancy you’re going to get money out of him, or a job for Will, I warn you that you’re no
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