William the Good Read Free

personal appearance.
    ‘It’s making you look awful,’ he said.
    ‘It isn’t ’ snapped Ethel; ‘my nose is a tiny bit red, but it’s not due to that at all.’
    ‘I bet it is ,’ said William.
    ‘It isn’t ,’ said Ethel. ‘Anyway’ – and she became almost humble in her pleading – ‘anyway – you won’t say anything to mother
about it, will you? Promise.’
    ‘Very well,’ said William.
    He promised quite willingly, because he didn’t want his mother interfering in it any more than Ethel did. He wanted to have the sole glory of saving Ethel from her life of crime, and if
their mother knew, of course, she’d take the whole thing out of his hands.
    ‘Ethel,’ said Mrs Brown tentatively, ‘I wonder – I’d be so much obliged if you’d take William with you to Mrs Hawkins’. He’s
getting so restless indoors, and I daren’t let him go out and play, because you know what he is. He’d be walking in the ditch and getting his feet wet and getting pneumonia or
something. But if he goes with you it will be a nice little change for him, and you can keep an eye on him, and – well’ – vaguely – ‘it’ll be about Shakespeare,
and that’s improving. His last school report was awful. And, as I say, it will be a nice little change for him.’
    Ethel knew that her mother was thinking about a nice little change for herself, rather than for William, but, chiefly lest her pronunciation of certain consonants should betray her, she
acquiesced.
    ‘Then I can get on with the preparations for the whist drive,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘and you won’t forget to ask for the bonbon dish, will you, dear?’
    Ethel said ‘No’ (or rather ‘Do’), and felt grateful to the whist drive because she knew that it was preoccupation with it that prevented her mother from recognising the
symptoms of a cold in the head which were becoming more and more pronounced every minute.
    William showed unexpected docility when ordered to accompany Ethel to Mrs Hawkins’. He felt that he had not so far acquitted himself with any conspicuous success in his role of reformer of
Ethel. He could not flatter himself that anything he had said would have saved her from drink. He might get another chance during the afternoon.
    There was quite a large gathering at Mrs Hawkins’. There was Mrs Hawkins and her daughter Betty. There was the Committee of the Dramatic Society. There were Dolly Morton, brought by Mrs
Morton, and Blanche Jones, brought by Mrs Jones. They were first of all given tea by Mrs Hawkins in the morning-room. ‘And then we’ll have our little reading,’ she added.
    She accepted William’s presence with resignation and without enthusiasm.
    ‘Of course, dear,’ she said to Ethel, ‘I quite understand. I know they’re trying, especially when they’ve been ill. Yes, it’s a joy to have him.
You’ll be very quiet, won’t you, my little man, because this is a very serious occasion. Very serious indeed.’
    Ethel sat down next to Betty Hawkins, and a great depression stole over her. She knew perfectly well that she could not be chosen as Rosalind in competition with Dolly Morton or Blanche Jones,
or indeed with anyone at all.
    She was feeling muzzier and muzzier every minute. Her eyes were watery. Her nose was red. She knew that with the best will in the world she was incapable of giving full value to the beauty of
Rosalind’s lines.
    ‘ I show bore birth than I am bistress of ,’ she quoted softly to herself, ‘ and would you yet I were berrier? ’
    No, it was quite hopeless. Moreover, Mrs Morton and Mrs Jones were both very wealthy, and fairly recent additions to the neighbourhood, and she had a suspicion that Mrs Hawkins was trying to
ingratiate herself with them. Yet she felt that she simply couldn’t go on living if she didn’t get the part of Rosalind. Mrs Hawkins handed her a cup of tea. William had wandered away.
He had gone over to the bay window where Mrs Morton sat alone. Mrs Morton