Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
To a man, that is a law of the Medes and Persians. . .
“Son of mine, you must try to forget the whole thing,” I said. “When you are older, I am afraid that some of your ideals will be modified; in future, no doubt, you will be more on your guard; but you will never be secure until you are yourself married.”
“Oh, I’m open to any offer,” said Will, exactly as poor Phyllida had done.
I was disquieted, for I could see clearly that he would indeed never feel secure from this girl until he was plighted to another woman. When once a man is “Morning-Posted”, as he would say, all other fancied claims dissolve into thin air. . . The mere sight of the Morecambe post-mark in those days sent my heart into my mouth, and I could see that the strain of this persecution was telling on his nerves. “Ann Spenworth,” I said to myself, “you must make up your mind; if he wants to marry Phyllida, you must not stand in the way.” . . .
All my life I have shrunk from the responsibility of interfering with the destiny of a boy and girl in love. The relationship is too delicate, the consequences are too grave. Before Phyllida came, I reviewed the position and decided to make no change.
“Your cousin,” I told Will, “is coming to
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