“Nothing so simple as that,” I said. “Any ordinary young lady would get out at a wrong station, and a couple of shillings would be plenty to offer you for chasing her in again. This one----” I hesitated, for I really did not know what Lalage was likely to do. “I’ll lock the door on her, anyway,” said the guard. “You may, but don’t flatter yourself that you’ll have her safe then. The only thing you can calculate on in the case of this particular young lady is that whatever she does will be something that you couldn’t possibly guess beforehand. Not that there’s any real harm in her. She’s simply possessed of an adventurous spirit and striking originality. Good-bye.” I had just time to shake hands with Lalage before the train started. She waved her pocket handkerchief cheerily to us as we stood together on the platform. I caught a glimpse of the guard’s face while his van swept past us. It wore a set expression, like that of a man determined in the cause of duty to go steadily forward into the unknown facing dread things bravely. I was satisfied that I had made a deep impression on him and I felt sorry that I had not made up his tip to an even half sovereign. The Canon was depressed as we drove home together. I felt it my duty to cheer him up as much as I could. “After all,” I said, “you’ve nothing to reproach yourself with. Miss Battersby has got another situation. She’ll be far happier at Thormanby’s than she ever could have been with you. His girls are thoroughly well brought up.” “She was very fond of Lalage,” said the Canon. “Still, they didn’t suit each other. Miss Battersby will get over any feeling of regret she may have at first. She’ll be far more at home with quiet, well-tamed girls like Thormanby’s.” The Canon was not listening to me. I judged from this that it was not anxiety about Miss Battersby’s future that was preying on his mind. I tried again. “If it’s the thought of that bottle of glycerine and cucumber which is worrying you,” I said, “don’t let it. Send her another. Send her two. Make Tom Kitterick carry them over to Thormanby Park and present them on bended knee, clad only in his shirt and with a halter round his neck.” The Canon’s gloom merely deepened. “I don’t think,” I said, “that you need fret about Miss Pettigrew. After all, it’s her job. She must meet plenty of high-spirited girls.” “I wasn’t thinking of her,” said the Canon. Then he began to murmur to himself and I was barely able, by leaning over toward him, to catch the quotation. “Miserarum est neque amori dare ludem. . . .” He saw that I was listening and lapsed into English. “There’s a translation of that ode,” he said, “into something quite like the original metre”: “‘How unhappy is the maiden who with Cupid may not play, And who may not touch the wine cup, but must listen all the day To an uncle and the scourging of his tongue’”