would be
necessary. He would have to give up his friendship with the signora,
his resistance to Mr. Harding, his antipathy--no, he found on mature
self-examination that he could not bring himself to give up his
antipathy to Dr. Grantly. He would marry the lady as the enemy of
her brother-in-law if such an arrangement suited her; if not, she
must look elsewhere for a husband.

It was with such resolve as this that he reached Barchester. He
would at once ascertain what the truth might be as to the lady's
wealth, and having done this he would be ruled by circumstances
in his conduct respecting the hospital. If he found that he could
turn round and secure the place for Mr. Harding without much
self-sacrifice, he would do so; but if not, he would woo the
daughter in opposition to the father. But in no case would he
succumb to the archdeacon.

He saw his horse taken round to the stable, and immediately went
forth to commence his inquiries. To give Mr. Slope his due, he was
not a man who ever let much grass grow under his feet.

Poor Eleanor! She was doomed to be the intended victim of more
schemes than one.

About the time that Mr. Slope was visiting the vicar of Puddingdale,
a discussion took place respecting her charms and wealth at Dr.
Stanhope's house in the close. There had been morning callers there,
and people had told some truth and also some falsehood respecting the
property which John Bold had left behind him. By degrees the visitors
went, and as the doctor went with them, and as the doctor's wife had
not made her appearance, Charlotte Stanhope and her brother were left
together. He was sitting idly at the table, scrawling caricatures of
Barchester notables, then yawning, then turning over a book or two,
and evidently at a loss how to kill his time without much labour.

"You haven't done much, Bertie, about getting any orders," said his
sister.

"Orders!" said he; "who on earth is there at Barchester to give one
orders? Who among the people here could possibly think it worth his
while to have his head done into marble?"

"Then you mean to give up your profession," said she.

"No, I don't," said he, going on with some absurd portrait of the
bishop. "Look at that, Lotte; isn't it the little man all over,
apron and all? I'd go on with my profession at once, as you call it,
if the governor would set me up with a studio in London; but as to
sculpture at Barchester--I suppose half the people here don't know
w