I looked at my watch as I got into my trap and found that it was eleven o’clock, not more than two hours since my uncle’s letter had been handed to me at the breakfast table. Yet I felt thoroughly tired. No one who has only just recovered from influenza ought to be called upon to face a crisis. At the best of times a crisis of any magnitude is too much for me. When I am weak anything of the sort exhausts me rapidly. It is most unfair that I should be beset with crises as I am. Other men, men who like excitement and unexpected calls for exertion, are condemned to years of unbroken monotony. I, who desire nothing so much as peace, have tumult and turmoil thrust upon me. I drove down the long avenue of Thormanby Park and determined to get home as quickly as possible. There is a greenhouse at the bottom of our garden which at that time was quite unfrequented because something had gone wrong with the heating apparatus and the more delicate plants had been removed from it. I intended to retire to it as soon as I got home with a hammock chair and a novel. I had every hope of being left in peace for an hour or so. That was my plan. It proved, as all my plans do, unworkable; but, as is always the case, through no fault of my own. At the gate lodge of Thormanby Park I met Lalage. She was riding a bicycle and jumped down as soon as she saw me. I pulled up my pony, of course. Even if Lalage had not jumped down I should have pulled up the pony. Lalage is a sure harbinger of trouble. Crises attend her course through life. Yet I cannot help stopping to talk to her when I get the chance. I suppose I am moved by some obscure instinct which makes me wish to know the worst in store for me as soon as possible. “I’m darting on,” said Lalage, “to secure Pussy Battersby, but I stopped for a moment to tell you to go straight to the rectory.” “You can’t get Miss Battersby now. She’s settling flowers.” “I must. She’s of the utmost importance. I must bring her back with me.” “Has the Archdeacon arrived unexpectedly?” “No. What on earth put that into your head? Good-bye.” “Wait a minute, Lalage. Take my advice and don’t go on. It’s not safe. My uncle is threatening you with all sorts of violence. You can guess the sort of temper he’s in.” “Gout?” “No. Your letter.” “My letter? Oh, yes. I’d forgotten that letter for the moment. You mean the one I wrote to him about the Archdeacon’s marriage.” “Now you know why you’d better not go near him for a day or two.” “Silly old ass, isn’t he, to lose his temper about that? But I can’t stop to argue. I must get Pussy Battersby at once. There isn’t a moment to spare.” “If the Archdeacon hasn’t turned up, what on earth do you want her for?” “The fact is,” said Lalage, “that Hilda’s mother is at the rectory.” “I thought she’d arrive some day. You couldn’t expect to keep her at bay forever. The wonder is that she didn’t come long ago.”