I was late for luncheon, very late. My mother had left the dining-room when I got home, but I found her and she readily agreed to leave the letters she was writing and to sit beside me while I ate. It was not, as I discovered, sympathy for my exhaustion and hunger which induced her to do this. She was full of curiosity. “Well,” she said, as I helped myself to some cold pie, “what was it?” “It was Lalage,” I said. “You guessed that before I started.” There was a short pause during which I ate some of the cold pie and found out that it was made, partly at least, of veal. Then my mother asked another question: “Has she hit on anything unexpected?” “Quite. She wants Thormanby to insist on the Archdeacon marrying Miss Battersby.” Even my mother was startled. She gave utterance to an exclamation. If she had been a man she would have sworn. I soothed her. “It’s not really a bad scheme,” I said, “when you get over the first shock. The Archdeacon, it appears, is bound to marry.” “Why?” “Timothy says so or seems to say so. Perhaps he didn’t really. What is the proper, regularly received interpretation of that text which says that a bishop is to be the husband of one wife?” “There are several.” “The Archdeacon is sure to know them, I suppose.” “Oh, yes. He’s certain to know them.” “He’ll want them all this afternoon. Lalage is going to him with that text drawn in her hand. She’s also taking Miss Battersby, a wedding ring, a cake, and a white satin dress. I’m speaking figuratively of course.” “I hope so. But however figurative your way of putting it may be, I’m afraid that the Archdeacon won’t be pleased.” “So I told Lalage. But she’s quite certain that he will. I should say myself that he’d dislike it several degrees more than he did the simony. I often think it’s a pity the Archdeacon hasn’t any sense of humour.” “No sense of humour would enable him to see that joke.” “Thormanby,” I said, “has been employed all morning in writing letters and appealing telegrams to Miss Pettigrew; but even if she comes it will be too late.” “I hope Miss Battersby hasn’t been told.” “Not by Lalage. She felt that there would be a certain want of delicacy about mentioning the subject to her before the Archdeacon had spoken.” My mother sighed. “I’m very fond of Lalage,” she said, “but I sometimes wish she was----” “That’s just what Miss Battersby was saying this morning. I quite agree with you both that life would be simpler if she was, but of course she isn’t.” “What Lalage wants is some steadying influence.” “Miss Pettigrew,” I said, “suggested marriage and babies. I don’t think she mentioned the number of babies, but several would be required.”