“Are Hilda and Selby-Harrison down here?” I asked.
“Hilda is,” said my mother. “I don’t know about the other. Who is he or she?”
“He,” I said, “is the third member of the committee of the Episcopal Election Guild. He’s particularly good at drawing up agreements. I expect the Archdeacon will have to sign one. By the way, I suppose he’s the proper man to vote for?”
“I’m supporting him,” said Thormanby, “so I suppose you will.” I do not like being hustled in this way. “I shall study the situation,” I said, “before I make up my mind. I am a life member of the Episcopal Election Guild and I must allow myself to be guided to some extent by the decision of the committee.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Thormanby, “that you’ve given that girl money again?”
“Not again. My original subscription carries me on from one society to another. Selby-Harrison arranged about that.”
“I should have thought,” said Thormanby sulkily, “that you’d had warnings enough. You will never learn sense even if you live to be a hundred.”
I saw the Archdeacon next day. He tackled the subject of my defeat in East Connor without hesitation. He has even less tact than Thormanby.
“I’m sorry for you, my dear boy,” he said, wringing my hand, “more sorry than I can tell you. These disappointments are very hard to bear at your age. When you are as old as I am and know how many of them life has in store for all of us, you will not feel them nearly so acutely.”
“I’m trying to bear up,” I said.