Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
why they complained that the dance was so crowded, no room to sit, impossible even to talk. . .
“Read those upstairs, dear Phyllida,” I begged.
And I took her arm and led her up, past that terrifying drawing-room, into safety. Will . . . When I returned, he wanted to talk; but I implored him to go up and let me come to him in a moment. He was curious, mystified . . . but at least he could not doubt my earnestness. Then at last I released my prisoner and hurried him through the hall and into the street. When I had shut the door I leaned against it, panting. I couldn’t walk, I could hardly stand. . .
“And now, Will?,” I said, when I was able to drag myself upstairs.
“There’s nothing much to tell—as yet,” he answered. “You’ve probably seen that she’s been getting steadily more miserable the last few days. I asked her to-night what it was all about, though I knew that she was eating her heart out for this Butler fellow. She would only say that she was unhappy and lonely; and I told her that was all rot, because any number of men would be in love with her if she gave them half a chance. Then she said it was no good, because she couldn’t give them any love in return, her heart was dead. . . The usual rot a girl talks.
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