“A lot of parsons,” I said. “All the parsons there are, and some dear old country gentlemen of blameless lives. Just the people really to appreciate Lalage.” “We shall have more trouble,” said Miss Pettigrew. “Plenty,” I said. “And Thormanby will be in the thick of it. He won’t find it so easy to wash his hands this time.” “Nor will you,” said Miss Pettigrew smiling, but I think maliciously. “I shall simply stay here,” I said, “and go on having influenza.” I have so much respect for Miss Pettigrew that I do not like to say she grinned at me but she certainly employed a smile which an enemy might have described as a grin. “The election here,” she said, “your election takes place, as I understand, early next week. Your mother will expect you home after that.” “Mothers are often disappointed,” I said. “Look at Hilda’s, for instance. And in any case my mother is a reasonable woman. She’ll respect a doctor’s certificate, and McMeekin will give me that if I ask him.” The Canon had evidently not been attending to what Miss Pettigrew and I were saying to one another. He broke in rather abruptly: “Is there any other place more attractive than Brazil?” He was thinking of Lalage, not of himself. I do not think he cared much where he went so long as he got far from Ireland. “There are, I believe,” I said, “still a few cannibal tribes left in the interior of Borneo. There are certainly head hunters there.” “Dyaks,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I might try her with them,” said the Canon. “If Miss Pettigrew,” I suggested, “will manage Hilda’s mother, the thing might possibly be arranged. Selby-Harrison could practise being a missionary.” “I shouldn’t like Hilda to be eaten,” said Miss Pettigrew. “There’s no fear of that,” I said. “Lalage is well able to protect her from any cannibal.” “I’ll make the offer,” said the Canon. “Anything would be better than having Lalage attempting to make speeches at the Diocesan Synod.” Miss Pettigrew had her packing to do and left shortly afterward. The Canon, who seemed to be really depressed, sat on with me and made plans for Lalage’s immediate future. From time to time, after I exposed the hollow mockery of each plan, he complained of the tyranny of circumstance. “If only the bishop hadn’t died,” he said. The dregs of the influenza were still hanging about me. I lost my temper with the Canon in the end. “If only,” I said, “you’d brought up Lalage properly.” “I tried governesses,” he said, “and I tried school.” “The only thing you did not try,” I said, “was what the Archdeacon recommended, a firm hand.” “The Archdeacon never married,” said the Canon. “I’m often sorry he didn’t. He wouldn’t say things like that if he had a child of his own.” CHAPTER XVII