Daddy shoved five and sevenpence under the door with a note to say that a lady in the house was very ill and would I either sing something else, or go in the next street, as that hymn made her nervous, so I chanted (being always anxious to oblige)—
'Beer, beer, glorious beer,
Drink till you're made of it,
Don't be afraid of it,
Glorious, glorious beer.'
Another note was pushed under the door then to say that the lady was dead now, and the Bishop thought it would be well for me to sign the pledge (enclosed).
The Bishop took me into dinner. I behaved just like a clergyman's daughter.
'Sorry,' said Michael, suddenly dropping his fish fork, 'but I can't, after all.'
'Can't what?'
'Marry the girl, sir.'
'De'ah me,' said the Bishop, 'this is most distressing, very.'
'What would your ludship advise,' said father, looking at me hopelessly, 'you see, I can't keep her here either, for the sake of the parish.'
'There is a home for Decayed Gentlewomen at Putney,' the Bishop began; 'I should be very happy if my vote and influence would be of any help, but I doubt'—he continued surveying me solemnly—'whether they would take her. She is so ah—er—um—so exceedingly decayed.'