nd authority, she had fully
made up her mind as to her course of action. She did not, however,
proclaim her intention. She shook her head ominously as he continued
his narration, and when he had completed, she rose to go, merely
observing that it was cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked him if
he would mind waiting for a late dinner instead of dining at their
usual hour of three; and, having received from him a concession on
this point, she proceeded to carry her purpose into execution.

She determined that she would at once go to the palace, that she
would do so, if possible, before Mrs. Proudie could have had an
interview with Mr. Slope, and that she would be either submissive,
piteous, and pathetic, or else indignant, violent, and exacting,
according to the manner in which she was received.

She was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as she was by
the pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt that she could make
her way through legions of episcopal servants and force herself, if
need be, into the presence of the lady who had so wronged her. She
had no shame about it, no _mauvaise honte_, no dread of archdeacons.
She would, as she declared to her husband, make her wail heard in
the market-place if she did not get redress and justice. It might
be very well for an unmarried young curate to be shamefaced in such
matters; it might be all right that a snug rector, really in want of
nothing, but still looking for better preferment, should carry on his
affairs decently under the rose. But Mrs. Quiverful, with fourteen
children, had given over being shamefaced and, in some things, had
given over being decent. If it were intended that she should be
ill-used in the manner proposed by Mr. Slope, it should not be done
under the rose. All the world should know of it.

In her present mood, Mrs. Quiverful was not over-careful about her
attire. She tied her bonnet under her chin, threw her shawl over her
shoulders, armed herself with the old family cotton umbrella, and
started for Barchester. A journey to the palace was not quite so
easy a thing for Mrs. Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead.
Plumstead is nine miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but
four. But the archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his
high-trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city within
the hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of Puddingdale
Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was no method of