“There are worse things than influenza. I used not to think so at first, but now I know there are. Why don’t you get it? I suppose you’ve come to see me in hope of infection.” “No. I came to warn you. We’ve just this moment arrived and you may expect us on you to-morrow morning.” “You and the Archdeacon?” “No. Thank goodness, nothing so bad as that. The Archdeacon is at home.” “I wonder at that. I fully expected he’d have been here.” “He would have been if he could. He wanted to come, but of course it was impossible. You heard I suppose, that the bishop is dead.” “No, I didn’t hear. Influenza?” “Pneumonia, and that ties the Archdeacon.” “What a providential thing! But you said ‘we.’ Is Thormanby here?” “No, Thormanby told me yesterday that he’d washed his hands of the whole affair.” “That’s exactly what I’ve done,” I said. “It’s by far the most sensible thing to do. I wonder you didn’t.” “I tried to,” said the Canon piteously. “I did my best. I have engaged a berth on a steamer going to Brazil, one that hasn’t got a wireless telegraphic installation, and I’ve secured a _locum tenens_ for the parish. But I shan’t be able to go. You can guess why.” “The Archdeacon?” The Canon nodded sadly. I did not care to make more inquiries about the Archdeacon. “Well,” I said, “if neither he nor Thormanby is with you, who is?” “Miss Battersby for one. She volunteered.” I felt relieved. Miss Battersby is never formidable. “She won’t matter,” I said. “Lalage and Hilda will put her to bed and keep her there. That’s what they did with her on the way to Lisbon.” “And Miss Pettigrew,” said the Canon. “How on earth does she come to be mixed up in it?” “Your mother telegraphed to her and begged her to come down with us to see what she could do. She’s supposed to have some influence with Lalage.” “What sort of woman is she? I don’t know her personally. Lalage says she’s the kind of person that you hate and yet can’t help rather loving, although you’re afraid of her. Is that your impression of her?” “She has a strongly developed sense of humour,” said the Canon, “and I’m afraid she’s rather determined.” “What do you expect to do?” “I don’t myself expect to do anything,” said the Canon. “I meant to say what is the ostensible object of the expedition?” “The Archdeacon spoke of our rescuing Lalage from an equivocal position.” “You ought to make that man bishop,” I said. “Miss Battersby kept on assuring us all the way down in the train that Lalage is a most lovable child, very gentle and tractable if taken the right way, but high spirited.” “That won’t help her much, because she’s no nearer now than she was ten years ago to finding out what is the right way to take Lalage. What are Miss Pettigrew’s views?” “She varies,” said the Canon, “between chuckling over your position and wishing that Lalage was safely married with some babies to look after. She says there’ll be no peace in Ireland until that happens.”