“Nobody has,” said the Canon despondingly. “I’ve said that all along.”
“What about the Provost of Trinity College?” I said. “He tackled her over the bishops. You might try him.”
“He won’t interfere,” said the Canon. “I asked him.”
“Well,” I said, “I can do no more. You can see for yourself, Miss Pettigrew, that I’m not in a state to make suggestions. I’m completely exhausted already and any further mental exertion will bring on a relapse. Do let me ring for tea. I want it myself.”
The door opened as I spoke. I hoped that my nurse or McMeekin had arrived and would insist on my being left in peace. I was surprised and, in spite of my exhaustion, pleased to see Lalage and Hilda walk in.
“Father,” said Lalage, “why didn’t you tell me last night that the bishop is dead?”
“I didn’t think it would interest you,” said the Canon.
“Of course it interests me. When poor old Pussy mentioned it to me just now I simply hopped out of my shoes with excitement and delight. So did Hilda.”
“Did you hate the bishop that much?” I asked. “Worse than other bishops?”
“Not at all,” said Lalage. “I never saw him except once and then I thought he was quite a lamb.”