he excitement of her anger to the nomenclature of old days. "And
this is to be my return for all my care in your behalf! Allow me to
tell you, sir, that in any position in which you may be placed I know
what is due to you, and that your dignity will never lose anything
in my hands. I wish that you were as well able to take care of it
yourself." Then she stalked out of the room, and left the poor man
alone.

Bishop Proudie sat alone in his study throughout the whole day. Once
or twice in the course of the morning his chaplain came to him on
some matter of business, and was answered with a smile,--the peculiar
softness of which the chaplain did not fail to attribute the right
cause. For it was soon known throughout the household that there had
been a quarrel. Could he quite have made up his mind to do so,--could
he have resolved that it would be altogether better to quarrel with
his wife,--the bishop would have appealed to the chaplain, and have
asked at any rate for sympathy. But even yet he could not bring
himself to confess his misery, and to own himself to another to be
the wretch that he was. Then during the long hours of the day he sat
thinking of it all. How happy could he be if it were only possible
for him to go away, and become even a curate in a parish, without his
wife! Would there ever come to him a time of freedom? Would she ever
die? He was older than she, and of course he would die first. Would
it not be a fine thing if he could die at once, and thus escape from
his misery?

What could he do, even supposing himself strong enough to fight the
battle? He could not lock her up. He could not even very well lock
her out of his room. She was his wife, and must have the run of the
house. He could not altogether debar her from the society of the
diocesan clergymen. He had, on this very morning, taken strong
measures with her. More than once or twice he had desired her to
leave the room. What was there to be done with a woman who would not
obey her husband,--who would not even leave him to the performance of
his own work? What a blessed thing it would be if a bishop could go
away from his home to his work every day like a clerk in a public
office,--as a stone-mason does! But there was no such escape for him.
He could not go away. And how was he to meet her again on this very
day?

And then for hours he thought of Dr. Tempest and Mr. Crawley,
considering what he had better do to repair the shipwreck of the
morn