“Hilda,” I said, “why did you hop out of your shoes with excitement and delight when you heard of the death of an old gentleman who never did you any harm?”
“We’ll have to elect another, won’t we?” said Lalage.
A horrible dread turned me quite cold. I glanced at Miss Pettigrew. Her eyes had stopped twinkling. I read fear, actual fear, in the expression of her face. We both shrank from saying anything which might lead to the confirming of our worst anticipations. It was the Canon who spoke next. What he said showed that he was nearly desperate.
“Lalage,” he said, “will you come with me for a tour to Brazil? I’ve booked one berth and I can easily get another!”
“I can’t possibly go to Brazil,” said Lalage, “and you certainly ought not to think of it till the bishopric election is over.”
“I’ll take Hilda, too,” said the Canon. “I should like to have Hilda. You and she would have great fun together.”
“I’ll give Selby-Harrison a present of his ticket,” I added, “and pay his hotel expenses. It would be a delightful trip.”
“Brazil,” said Miss Pettigrew, “is one of the most interesting countries in the world. I can lend you a book on the natural history.”
“Hilda’s mother wouldn’t let her go,” said Lalage. “Would she, Hilda?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Hilda. “She thinks I ought to be more at home.”