Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
The girl felt it, too. One day, when he’d devoted half the night to looking after her at a ball, she came to me—in real trouble, I thought—, and we had a serious talk. I told her that, if she had not spoken, I should have; Will was devoting himself to her so good-naturedly that he was neglecting his own prospects and doing nothing to secure an appointment.
“As his mother,” I said, “I cannot bear to see his abilities wasting. . . He needs a good appointment; and I don’t even know where to begin looking for one. But you are not to bother your head about my affairs. Tell me, dear child, what is troubling you.”
So far as I could make out—she spoke very simply and nicely—, she was afraid of getting into a false position with Will if she went about with him so much. Affichée. . . At this ball—I had handed on her mother’s request that we should be most careful whom we introduced—Will had very unselfishly played cavalier the whole evening; and, as she put on her cloak, some girl had asked one of those silly, impertinent questions which do such incalculable harm. . .
“My dear, you must not distress yourself,” I said. “You know the old saying—‘There is safety in numbers’—; for the future. . .”
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