I was naturally anxious to hear Miss Battersby’s version of the experimental treatment of Tom Kitterick’s complexion. I hoped that my mother would have told me the story voluntarily. She did not, so I approached the subject obliquely after dinner.
“The Archdeacon,” I said, “was lamenting to me this morning that Mrs. Beresford died while Lalage was still a baby.”
My mother seemed a little surprised to hear this.
“He takes the greatest interest in Lalage,” I added. “She’s a very attractive little girl.”
“Very,” said my mother. “But I thought the Archdeacon went to Dublin yesterday. He certainly told me he was going. Did he come back at once?”
“So far as I know he hasn’t come back.”
“Then when did he say——”
“He didn’t actually say it at all. He hardly ever says anything to me. I so seldom see him, you know.”
This at least was true. Although the seat of the archdeaconry is in Drumbo, a town which contains our nearest railway station and which is our chief centre for local shopping, I had not spoken to the Archdeacon for more than three months. My mother seemed to be waiting for an explanation of my original remark. I gave her one at once.
“But it’s exactly the kind of thing the Archdeacon would have said if he hadn’t been in Dublin and if I had met him and if our conversation had happened to turn on Lalage Beresford.”