“I might try her with them,” said the Canon.
“If Miss Pettigrew,” I suggested, “will manage Hilda’s mother, the thing might possibly be arranged. Selby-Harrison could practise being a missionary.”
“I shouldn’t like Hilda to be eaten,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“There’s no fear of that,” I said. “Lalage is well able to protect her from any cannibal.”
“I’ll make the offer,” said the Canon. “Anything would be better than having Lalage attempting to make speeches at the Diocesan Synod.”
Miss Pettigrew had her packing to do and left shortly afterward. The Canon, who seemed to be really depressed, sat on with me and made plans for Lalage’s immediate future. From time to time, after I exposed the hollow mockery of each plan, he complained of the tyranny of circumstance.
“If only the bishop hadn’t died,” he said.
The dregs of the influenza were still hanging about me. I lost my temper with the Canon in the end.
“If only,” I said, “you’d brought up Lalage properly.”
“I tried governesses,” he said, “and I tried school.”