Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
After all, if—as I hope—everything goes well, I am entitled to a little credit. . .
“Oh, not a word!,” said Phyllida. “He wouldn’t even dance with me at first. I said: ‘Are you trying to avoid me?’ He said: ‘Yes.’ . . And I could have died till I saw he was only joking. Then we both laughed. Then he said: ‘Would your mother invite me down to the Hall one week-end soon? It’s only fair to warn her that, if she doesn’t, I shall invite myself.’ ‘And, if you don’t invite yourself, I shall invite you,’ I told him. ‘Don’t let’s say anything at present,’ he said; ‘I’ve been very busy since I saw you last, but I shall be free in a week or two.’ He wired on Wednesday to know if he might come. I knew you would like to meet him and to see that my faith was justified.”
“Dear Phyllida,” I said. “I hope indeed that it has been.”
“If he doesn’t propose to me,” answered Phyllida, “I shall propose to him. I always told you I would.”
Of course, I am old-fashioned; I was brought up in a different school. Do you know, even in jest, between the two of us, that kind of speech is always very distasteful to me. . .
Apparently the young man was motoring
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