Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“The appointment?,” he repeated.
“The opening you promised to find for Will,” I reminded him.
“Did I promise?,” he asked stupidly; and then with deliberate malice, “Can you prove that there was ever a promise?”
I reminded him of our talks at Menton. Goodness me, the man had dined for the express purpose of meeting Will and deciding what kind of work would suit him best.
“We have to make our plans,” I explained.
“I don’t think we need discuss this,” he said. “Your son, as you told me, has no experience or technical knowledge, so that, if I employed him at all, I should employ him for his qualities of character. I should not dream of judging any man on a single meeting, so I think we had better postpone a decision until I have had better opportunity of studying his honour and generosity.”
And that is how we stand at present. . .
Will thinks that there is nothing to hope for in that quarter, but I cannot believe that, when a man has given a solemn promise, he will try to wriggle out of it. Sir Appleton owes a good deal to me; but for my advice and really untiring pains he would still be plain Mr. Deepe, unknown to any one outside his business. . .
Of the girl we have heard nothing for two
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