Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
for he answered with an impatience which in other days some of us might have considered uncivil.
“Is she rich?,” he asked. “I know nothing about her. I don’t even know she’s a widow. I met her on the boat coming home from Buenos Aires; and, as she’d never been in London, I tried to make her feel at home and asked Lady Maitland to give her a helping hand.”
And that was literally all I got out of him—the fountain-head. Connie knew nothing and wanted to know nothing. It was enough that Mrs. Sawyer was presentable in herself and would attach her name to any subscription-list for any amount. The others—people who are usually well-informed—simply handed on the gossip which they had themselves made up overnight. It was then that I approached my diplomatic friends.
The difficulty was to know where to start. I couldn’t commit myself, I felt, by one dinner, so when my Will came back. . . From the north, yes. You knew that he was home? Oh, yes! Well, at the moment he is not doing anything. The Morecambe experiment was not a success; the place didn’t suit him, and he didn’t suit the place. That is all I care to say on the subject. Half-truths are always misleading; and I cannot tell you the full story,
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