“There was something in the style of the narrative, a certain quite appreciable literary flavour which suggested the Anti-Cat; but please go on and keep to the words of the article as far as possible. You had just got to where you spoke to no one in particular.”
“Laying down my fork, I said to no one in particular: ‘Of course I get a holiday for my birthday.’ ‘I think a half——’ began she. ‘Of course,’ said father loudly, ‘a holiday on such a great occasion.’ Her face fell. Her scowl deepened. To hide her rage she blew her nose. There was a revengeful glitter in her eye.”
Lalage paused.
“I need scarcely tell you,” said the Canon, “that I had no idea when I spoke that there had been any previous discussion of the subject.”
“The article ends there, I suppose,” I said.
“Yes,” said Lalage. “She had it in for me after that worse than ever, knowing that I had jolly well scored off her.”
“And in the end she broke out over your effort to improve Tom Kitterick’s complexion?”
“She sneaked,” said Lalage; “sneaked to father. I wrote an article about that. It’s in my box if you’d like to see it.”
The Canon’s eyes met mine. Then we both looked at our watches. We had still ten minutes before the train started.
“It’s about halfway down,” said Lalage, “on the left-hand side.”