"Should I, now? What a pity that I can't have that chance of improving my faith. But you are a man of business, also, Mr. Supplehouse—so they tell me." And she turned to her neighbor on her right hand.
"I can not compare myself to Harold Smith," said he, "but perhaps I may equal the bishop."
"What does a man do, now, when he sets himself down to business? How does he set about it? What are his tools? A quire of blotting paper, I suppose, to begin with?"
"That depends, I should say, on his trade. A shoemaker begins by waxing his thread."
"And Mr. Harold Smith—?"
"By counting up his yesterday's figures, generally, I should say, or else by unrolling a ball of red tape. Well-docketed papers and statistical facts are his forte."
"And what does a bishop do? Can you tell me that?"
"He sends forth to his clergy either blessings or blowings-up, according to the state of his digestive organs. But Mrs. Proudie can explain all that to you with the greatest accuracy."
"Can she, now? I understand what you mean, but I don't believe a word of it. The bishop manages his own affairs himself, quite as much as you do, or Mr. Harold Smith."
"I, Miss Dunstable?"
"Yes, you."
"But I, unluckily, have not a wife to manage them for me."
"Then you should not laugh at those who have, for you don't know what you may come to yourself when you're married."
Mr. Supplehouse began to make a pretty speech, saying that he would be delighted to incur any danger in that respect to which he might be subjected by the companionship of Miss Dunstable. But, before he was half through it, she had turned her back upon him, and began a conversation with Mark Robarts.
"Have you much work in your parish, Mr. Robarts?" she asked. Now Mark was not aware that she knew his name, or the fact of his having a parish, and was rather surprised by the question. And he had not quite liked the tone in which she had seemed to speak of the bishop
