Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
good-tempered, but I will not allow every one to make himself a ruler and a judge. . .
All through the summer it had been “Mrs. Sawyer this” and “Mrs. Sawyer that”. Dear Consuelo was so charming, her parties were so delightful. If one did not know her, one must take steps to become acquainted. And so forth and so on. . . In the autumn there was what I can only describe as a guilty silence; it was in questionable taste to mention her; she dropped out completely, and one almost begged one’s man not to bring the car home by way of South Audley Street. Every one seemed to fear that she might present herself any day at the door and claim to be taken in and supported by those who had only accepted her too lavish hospitality because they were “friends” and a little sorry for her lonely state. Then came the great surprise. . .
It can only have been a surprise to people who had jumped to conclusions without troubling to collect a shred of evidence. . . I purposely kept my mind a blank. . . There were rumours; and then one read the announcement—that she was marrying this Major Blanstock. I believe she is a great heiress, I believe her husband did drink himself to death. And I still believe, as I always believed, that she is a thoroughly nice, very unhappy woman. . .
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