half wife and half not, full of affectation, airs, and impudence?
Was she not horribly bedizened with velvet and pearls, with velvet
and pearls, too, which had not been torn off her back? Above all,
did she not pretend to be more beautiful than her neighbours? To
say that Mrs. Proudie was jealous would give a wrong idea of her
feelings. She had not the slightest desire that Mr. Slope should be
in love with herself. But she desired the incense of Mr. Slope's
spiritual and temporal services, and did not choose that they should
be turned out of their course to such an object as Signora Neroni.
She considered also that Mr. Slope ought in duty to hate the signora,
and it appeared from his manner that he was very far from hating her.

"Come, Mr. Slope," she said, sweeping by and looking all that she
felt, "can't you make yourself useful? Do pray take Mrs. Grantly
down to supper."

Mrs. Grantly heard and escaped. The words were hardly out of Mrs.
Proudie's mouth before the intended victim had stuck her hand through
the arm of one of her husband's curates and saved herself. What
would the archdeacon have said had he seen her walking downstairs
with Mr. Slope?

Mr. Slope heard also, but was by no means so obedient as was expected.
Indeed, the period of Mr. Slope's obedience to Mrs. Proudie was
drawing to a close. He did not wish yet to break with her, nor to
break with her at all, if it could be avoided. But he intended to be
master in that palace, and as she had made the same resolution it was
not improbable that they might come to blows.

Before leaving the signora he arranged a little table before her and
begged to know what he should bring her. She was quite indifferent,
she said--nothing--anything. It was now she felt the misery of her
position, now that she must be left alone. Well, a little chicken,
some ham, and a glass of champagne.

Mr. Slope had to explain, not without blushing for his patron, that
there was no champagne.

Sherry would do just as well. And then Mr. Slope descended with
the learned Miss Trefoil on his arm. Could she tell him, he asked,
whether the ferns of Barsetshire were equal to those of Cumberland?
His strongest worldly passion was for ferns--and before she could
answer him he left her wedged between the door and the sideboard.
It was fifty minutes before she escaped, and even then unfed.

"You are not leaving us, Mr. Slope," said the watchful lady of the
house, seeing her slave escaping