They swept out of the room. Miss Pettigrew got up and shut the door after them. The Canon was too much upset to move.
“I congratulate you, Miss Pettigrew,” I said. “You’ve succeeded after all in getting Lalage out of this. I hardly thought you would.”
“This,” said the Canon, “is worse, infinitely worse.”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Miss Pettigrew, “about the procedure in these cases. Who elects bishops?”
“The Diocesan Synod,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Canon?”
“Yes,” he said, gloomily.
“And who constitutes the Diocesan Synod?” said Miss Pettigrew.
“A lot of parsons,” I said. “All the parsons there are, and some dear old country gentlemen of blameless lives. Just the people really to appreciate Lalage.”
“We shall have more trouble,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“Plenty,” I said. “And Thormanby will be in the thick of it. He won’t find it so easy to wash his hands this time.”