Hilda tried three others. The wording of their definitions varied, but they were all in substantial agreement with the first.
“There must,” I said, “have been something in the questions which you put to the Archdeacon which suggested simony to his mind. What did you ask him?”
“I didn’t ask him anything. I intended to but I hadn’t time. He was on top of us with his old simony before I opened my mouth.”
“You did say one thing,” said Hilda.
“Then that must have been it,” I said.
“It wasn’t in the least simonious,” said Lalage. “In fact it wasn’t anything at all. It was merely a polite way of beginning the conversation.”
“All the same,” I said. “It was simony. It must have been, for there was nothing else. What was it?”
“It wasn’t of any importance,” said Lalage. “I simply said—just in the way you might say you hoped his cold was better without meaning anything in particular—that I supposed if he was elected bishop he’d make father archdeacon.”
“Ah!” I said.
“He flew out at that straight away. Rather ridiculous of him, wasn’t it? He can’t be both bishop and archdeacon, so he needn’t try. He must give up the second job to some one or other. I’d have thought he’d have seen that at once.”