“The sect makes no difference,” I observed. “Well, my sisters, like good girls, began to repeat the irregular verbs. But it was no use. We were discovered. That night, Miss Phyllis, I nearly drowned myself.” “You must have been--Oh, how awful, Mr. Carter!” “That is to say, I thought how effective it would be if I drowned myself. Ah, well, it couldn’t last!” “And the governess?” “She left next morning.” There was a pause. Miss Phyllis looked sad and thoughtful; I smiled pensively and beat my cane against my leg. “Have you ever seen her since?” asked Miss Phyllis. “No.” “Shouldn’t--shouldn’t you like to, Mr. Carter?” “Heaven forbid!” said I. Suddenly Mrs. Hilary pushed back her chair, and turned round to us. “Well, I declare,” said she, “I must be growing stupid. Here have I been writing to the Agency, when I know of the very thing myself! The Polwheedles’ governess is just leaving them; she’s been there over fifteen years. Lady Polwheedle told me she was a treasure. I wonder if she’d go!” “Is she what mamma wants?” “My dear, you’ll be most lucky to get her. I’ll write at once and ask her to come to lunch tomorrow. I met her there. She’s an admirable person.” Mrs. Hilary wheeled round again. I shook my head at Miss Phyllis. “Poor children!” said I. “Manage a bit of fun for them sometimes.” Miss Phyllis assumed a staid and virtuous air. “They must be properly brought up, Mr. Carter,” said she. “Is there a House Opposite?” I asked; and Miss Phyllis blushed. Mrs. Hilary advanced, holding out a letter. “You may as well post this for me,” said she. “Oh, and would you like to come to lunch tomorrow?” “To meet the Paragon?” “No. She’ll be there, of course; but you see it’s Saturday, and Hilary will be here; and I thought you might take him off somewhere and leave Phyllis and me to have a quiet talk with her.” “That won’t amuse her much,” I ventured to remark. “She’s not coming to be amused,” said Mrs. Hilary severely. “All right; I’ll come,” said I, taking my hat. “Here’s the note for Miss Bannerman,” said Mrs. Hilary. That sort of thing never surprises me. I looked at the letter and read “Miss M. E. Bannerman.” “M. E.” stood for “Maud Elizabeth.” I put my hat back on the table. “What sort of a looking person is this Miss Bannerman?” I asked. “Oh, a spare, upright woman--hair a little gray, and--I don’t know how to describe it--her face looks a little weather-beaten. She wears glasses.” “Thank you,” said I. “And what sort of a looking person am I?” Mrs. Hilary looked scornful. Miss Phyllis opened her eyes. “How old do I look, Miss Phyllis?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she said uncomfortably. “Guess,” said I sternly. “F-forty-three--oh, or forty-two?” she asked, with a timid upward glance. “When you’ve done your nonsense--” began Mrs. Hilary; but I laid a hand on her arm. “Should you call me fat?” I asked. “Oh, no; not fat,” said Mrs. Hilary, with a smile, which she strove to render reassuring.