The Clergyman’s Daughter
“I wish,” said Tuppence, roaming moodily round the office, “that we could befriend a clergyman’s daughter.”
“Why?” asked Tommy.
“You may have forgotten the fact, but I was once a clergyman’s daughter myself. I remember what it was like. Hence this altruistic urge—this spirit of thoughtful consideration for others—this—”
“You are getting ready to be Roger Sheringham, I see,” said Tommy. “If you will allow me to make a criticism, you talk quite as much as he does, but not nearly so well.”
“On the contrary,” said Tuppence, “there is a feminine subtlety about my conversation, a je ne sais quoi , that no gross male could ever attain to. I have, moreover, powers unknown to my prototype—do I mean prototype? Words are such uncertain things, they so often sound well but mean the opposite of what one thinks they do.”
“Go on,” said Tommy kindly.
“I was. I was only pausing to take breath. Touching these powers, it is my wish today to assist a clergyman’s daughter. You will see, Tommy, the first person to enlist the aid of Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives will be a clergyman’s daughter.”
“I’ll bet you it isn’t,” said Tommy.
“Done,” said Tuppence. “Hist! To your typewriters, Oh! Israel. One comes.”