Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
marry him or he could go right away and forget about her . . . until he had something more to offer, I think he said. . . You and I know what that means. He was greatly upset and begged me to write occasionally when he was back at the front, just to tell him how Phyllida was; he wouldn’t write to her himself, he said, because he wanted to leave her unembarrassed and it would be too painful for him.
“If she’s still unmarried when I’ve made good,” he said, “it will be time to begin writing then.”
I suppose it was because Phyllida had never been in love before. . . I was ready to make allowances, but I was not prepared for the outburst, the extravagance, the self-indulgence of grief.
“Come, come, my dear!,” I said, “it would have been a very unsuitable match; and, if you haven’t the sense to realize it, he has.”
She turned on me like a fury. . . I don’t know what was in his letter of good-bye; but I suppose it was the usual romantic promise that he’d go away and make his fortune and then come back to claim her. (Good riddance, too, I thought; though I liked him.) Phyllida evidently treated it quite seriously. . .
“If he’d been mine for a week or a
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