“There was trouble. The sort of trouble nobody could possibly foresee or guard against. You know Tom Kitterick, don’t you?”
“The boy who cleans your boots? Yes, I do. A freckly faced brat.”
“Exactly. Well, it appears that Miss Battersby is rather particular about her complexion, and——”
“Lalage tried the stuff on Tom Kitterick, I suppose.”
“Yes. She used the whole bottle, and Miss Battersby found out what had happened and complained to me. She was extremely nice about it, but she said that the incident had made her position as Lalage’s governess quite impossible.”
“Lalage, of course, smiled balmily.”
“Calmly,” said the Canon. “She told me herself that the word was calm, though it looked rather like ‘balm.’ Anyhow, that was the last straw. Miss Battersby goes next week. The Archdeacon——”
“I thought he’d come in before we’d done.”
“He did his best to be sympathetic and helpful. He said yesterday, just before he went to Dublin, that what Lalage requires is a firm hand over her. That’s the sort of thing a bachelor with no children of his own does say, and means of course. Any man who had ever tried to bring up a girl would know that firm hands are totally useless, and, besides, I haven’t got any. ‘Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno....’ Don’t try to translate that if you’d rather not. It simply means that I’m not the man I used to be. I hate trying to cope with these domestic broils. That’s why I’m going up to see your mother.”
The drawn sword did not really interfere with the Canon’s appetite, but he refused to smoke a cigar after luncheon. I went off by myself to the library. He followed my mother into the drawing-room. I waited, although I had a good many things to do, until he joined me. He sighed heavily as he sat down.