CONTENTS
| PAGE | |
| I | [7] |
| II | [11] |
| III | [16] |
| IV | [19] |
| V | [24] |
| VI | [30] |
| VII | [38] |
| VIII | [43] |
| IX | [49] |
| X | [53] |
| XI | [57] |
| XII | [66] |
| XIII | [71] |
| XIV | [77] |
| XV | [84] |
| XVI | [90] |
| XVII | [97] |
| XVIII | [102] |
| XX | [112] |
| XXI | [117] |
| XXII | [122] |
| XXIII | [127] |
| XXIV | [130] |
| XXV | [137] |
| XXVI | [142] |
| XXVII | [146] |
| XXVIII | [152] |
| XXIX | [156] |
| XXX | [164] |
| XXXI | [170] |
| XXXII | [175] |
| XXXIII | [177] |
| XXXIV | [181] |
| XXXV | [185] |
| XXXVI | [192] |
| XXXVII | [196] |
| XXXVIII | [202] |
| XXXIX | [208] |
| XL | [215] |
| XLI | [219] |
| XLII | [223] |
| XLIII | [228] |
| XLIV | [233] |
| XLV | [241] |
| XLVI | [247] |
| XLVII | [252] |
| XLVIII | [256] |
| XLIX | [256] |
ADVISORY BEN
I
In the lives of all, even the least enterprising or adventurous, moments now and then arrive when a decision has to be made; and our demeanour at such times throws a strong light upon our character. Many of us postpone action, either sheltering behind a natural reluctance to do anything emphatic, or feeling that the Fates ought to arrange our affairs for us. After all, it is their métier.
But my Ben was not like that. My Ben (to give her her full name, Benita Staveley) was instantly practical, and her disapproval of the pastoral process known as letting the grass grow under your feet was intense. All her actions were prompt, without, however, coming within the zone of impulse. Even at twenty-two she envisaged a situation with perfect clearness, and knew her mind; but why I should mention twenty-two as though it were a tender age, I can't explain, except as the result of pure want of thought. To say of a man that he is twenty-two is often merely to accuse him of callowness; but in a woman twenty-two can be maturity in everything but actual physique; and this is especially the case with those who, like Ben, even from young girlhood have been relied upon by father, mother, brothers and sisters to solve their difficulties and make things smooth for them.
Ever since I have known Ben—and her mother and I were playfellows half a century and more ago—she has been a mixture of factotum and oracle, yet without ever for a moment declining into a drudge or losing gaiety. A Cinderella perhaps; but a Cinderella who went to the ball without any supernatural assistance; a Cinderella with a laugh and a retort; a Cinderella who won respect and as much chocolate as she wanted, both from those within the home and out of it. Not a few boxes, for instance, from my own hand.