ot yet be told
that he had promised to take such a verdict as sufficing also for an
ecclesiastical acquittal. In this spirit his letter was written and
sent off before he again saw his wife.

He did not meet her till they came together in the drawing-room
before dinner. In explaining the whole truth as to circumstances as
they existed at the palace at that moment, it must be acknowledged
that Mrs. Proudie herself, great as was her courage, and wide as
were the resources which she possessed within herself, was somewhat
appalled by the position of affairs. I fear that it may now be too
late for me to excite much sympathy in the mind of any reader on
behalf of Mrs. Proudie. I shall never be able to make her virtues
popular. But she had virtues, and their existence now made her
unhappy. She did regard the dignity of her husband, and she felt at
the present moment that she had almost compromised it. She did also
regard the welfare of the clergymen around her, thinking of course
in a general way that certain of them who agreed with her were the
clergymen whose welfare should be studied, and that certain of them
who disagreed with her were the clergymen whose welfare should be
postponed. But now an idea made its way into her bosom that she was
not perhaps doing the best for the welfare of the diocese generally.
What if it should come to pass that all the clergymen of the diocese
should refuse to open their mouths in her presence on ecclesiastical
subjects, as Dr. Tempest had done? This special day was not one on
which she was well contented with herself, though by no means on that
account was her anger mitigated against the offending rural dean.

During dinner she struggled to say a word or two to her husband, as
though there had been no quarrel between them. With him the matter
had gone so deep that he could not answer her in the same spirit.
There were sundry members of the family present,--daughters, and a
son-in-law, and a daughter's friend who was staying with them; but
even in the hope of appearing to be serene before them he could not
struggle through his deep despondence. He was very silent, and to his
wife's words he answered hardly anything. He was courteous and gentle
with them all, but he spoke as little as was possible, and during
the evening he sat alone, with his head leaning on his hand,--not
pretending even to read. He was aware that it was too late to make
even an attempt to conceal his misery and his disgr