“Are you going to do it so soon?”
“The election is next week,” said Lalage, “so we haven’t a moment to lose.”
“Well,” I said, “if you’re really going to do it, I shall be greatly obliged if you’ll let me know afterward exactly what the Archdeacon says.”
“I will if you like,” said Lalage, “but there won’t be anything to tell you. He’ll simply thank me for bringing the point under his notice.”
“I’m not a betting man, but if I were I’d wager a pretty large sum that whatever the Archdeacon does he won’t thank you.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that he has a special objection to Pussy Battersby?”
“None in the world. I’m sure he respects her. We all do.”
“Then I don’t see what you mean by saying that he won’t thank me. He’s a tiresome old thing, especially when he tries to be polite, which he’s always doing, but he’s not by any means a fool where his own interests are concerned. He’ll see at once that I’m doing him a kindness.”
I found nothing more to say, so I left Lalage. I had at all events, done my best. I drove home.