‘If I am ever dean,’ said Mr Slope—’that is, were I ever to become so, I should glory in such a canoness.’

‘Oh, Mr Slope, stop; I haven’t half done. There is another canoness for you to glory in. Mr Slope is not only to have the deanery, but a wife to put in it.’

Mr Slope again looked disconcerted.

‘A wife with a large fortune, too. It never rains but it pours, does it Mr Thorne?’

‘No, never,’ said Mr Thorne, who did not quite relish talking about Mr Slope and his affairs.

‘When will it be, Mr Slope?’

‘When will what be?’ said he.

‘Oh! we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week will settle that. The new hat, I have no doubt, has already been ordered. But when will the marriage come off?’

‘Do you mean mine or Mr Arabin’s,’ said he, striving to be facetious.

‘Well, just then I meant yours, though perhaps, after all, Mr Arabin’s may be first. But we know nothing of him. He is too close for any of us. Now all is open and above board with you; which, by the bye, Mr Arabin, I beg to tell you I like much the best. He who runs can read that Mr Slope is a favoured lover. Come, Mr Slope, when is the widow to be made Mrs Dean?’

To Mr Arabin this badinage was peculiarly painful; and yet he could not tear himself away and leave it. He believed, still believed with that sort of belief which the fear of a thing engenders, that Mrs Bold would probably become the wife of Mr Slope. Of Mr Slope’s little adventure in the garden he knew nothing. For aught he knew, Mr Slope might have had an adventure of quite a different character. He might have thrown himself at the widow’s feet, been accepted, and then returned to town a jolly, thriving wooer. The signora’s jokes were bitter enough to Mr Slope, but they were quite as bitter to Mr Arabin. He still stood leaning against the fire–place, fumbling with his hands in his trouser’s pockets.

‘Come, come, Mr Slope, don’t be so bashful,’ continued the signora. ‘We all know that you proposed to the lady the other day at Ullathorne. Tell us with what words she accepted you. Was it with a simple “yes”, or with two “no, no’s”, which makes an affirmative? or did silence give consent: or did she speak out with that spirit which so well becomes a widow, and say openly, “By my troth, sir, you shall make me Mrs Slope as soon as it is your pleasure to do so”?’

Mr Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his case. There sat Mr Thorne, laughing silently. There stood his old antagonist, Mr Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round the door between the two rooms were clustered a little group of people, including Miss Stanhope and the Rev. Messrs. Gray and Green, all listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely on his own wit whether or no he could throw the joke back upon the lady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could; but he said not a word. ‘’Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all.’ He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor’s fingers, and did not know who might have seen the blow, who might have told the tale to this pestilent woman who took such delight in jeering him. He stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute as a fish; grinning just sufficiently to show his teeth; an object of pity.

But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present object was to put Mr Slope down, and she was determined to do it thoroughly, now that she had him in her power.

‘What, Mr Slope, no answer? Why it can’t possibly be that this woman has been fool enough to refuse you? She surely can’t be looking out after a bishop. But I see how it is, Mr Slope. Widows are proverbially cautious. You should have let her alone till the new hat was on your head; till you could show her the key of the deanery.’