‘And what does the archbishop say about that?’ asked Mrs Proudie.

‘Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr Slope to speak to the archbishop. Mr Slope spoke to me about it. It was very arrogant of him, I must say,—but that is nothing to me.’

‘Arrogant!’ said Mrs Proudie; ‘it is the most impudent piece of pretension I ever heard in my life. Mr Slope dean of Barchester, indeed! And what did you do in the matter, bishop?’

‘Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me,’ said Mrs Proudie, ‘that you are going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such preposterous attempts as this? Mr Slope dean of Barchester indeed!’ And she tossed her head, and put her arms a–kimbo, with an air of confident defiance that made her husband quite sure that Mr Slope never would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs Proudie was all but invincible; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether that arch wife–tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly unfitted for feminine use.

‘It is preposterous, my dear.’

‘Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?’

‘Why,—my dear, I haven’t assisted him—much.’

‘But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in any thing so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?’

‘Why, I did just mention it; I just did say that—that in the event of the poor dean’s death, Mr Slope would—would—’

‘Would what?’

‘I forget how I put it,—would take it if he could get it; something of that sort. I didn’t say much more than that.’

‘You shouldn’t have said anything at all. And what did the archbishop say?’

‘He didn’t say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were discussing the new parochial universal school committee, the matter of the new dean dropped; after that I didn’t think it was wise to renew it.’

‘Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the archbishop think of that?’

‘You may be sure, my dear, that the archbishop thought very little about it.’

‘But why did you think about it, bishop? How could you think of making such a creature as that Dean of Barchester?—Dean of Barchester! I suppose he’ll be looking for bishoprics some of these days—a man that hardly knows who his father was; a man that I found without bread to his mouth, or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester indeed! I’ll dean him.’

Mrs Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure Whig; all her family belonged to the Whig party. Now among all ranks of Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs Proudie should, I think, be ranked among the former, on the score of her great strength of mind), no one is so hostile to lowly born pretenders to high station as the pure Whig.

The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. ‘Why, my dear,’ said he, ‘it appeared to me that you and Mr Slope did not get on quite as well as you used to do.’