Meg Bailey 20
One evening Lucy startled me by saying, “You mustn’t be unkind to poor dear Henry.” I didn’t know what she meant. Seeing me puzzled, she went on to say that he was falling in love with me and that if I didn’t want him I must do something about it.
“But Lucy,” I said, “I haven’t done anything to make him fall in love with me – if he is falling – so what could I do to make him not? I like him, so I don’t see why I should suddenly turn horrid to him.”
“You don’t have to turn horrid to him. … Meg, how old are you?”
“Nearly twenty-one.”
“Haven’t you ever had an affair with anyone?”
“Of course not,” I said, and then blushed hard at having said it. I knew that there was no “of course” about it at my age; that was only the way I had lived which made it seem inevitable to me. Lucy’s look of surprise was not unkind, but it embarrassed me so much that I had to find an excuse to go up to my room.

