“Ah, Robarts, I’m delighted to see you,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they met on the drawing-room rug before dinner. “You know Harold Smith? Yes, of course you do. Well, who else is there? Oh! Supplehouse. Mr. Supplehouse, allow me to introduce to you my friend Mr. Robarts. It is he who will extract the five-pound note out of your pocket next Sunday for these poor Papuans whom we are going to Christianize. That is, if Harold Smith does not finish the work out of hand at his Saturday lecture. And, Robarts, you have seen the bishop, of course:” this he said in a whisper. “A fine thing to be a bishop, isn’t it? I wish I had half your chance. But, my dear fellow, I’ve made such a mistake; I haven’t got a bachelor parson for Miss Proudie. You must help me out, and take her in to dinner.” And then the great gong sounded, and off they went in pairs. At dinner Mark found himself seated between Miss Proudie and the lady whom he had heard named as Miss Dunstable. Of the former he was not very fond, and, in spite of his host’s petition, was not inclined to play bachelor parson for her benefit. With the other lady he would willingly have chatted during the dinner, only that everybody else at table seemed to be intent on doing the same thing. She was neither young, nor beautiful, nor peculiarly ladylike; yet she seemed to enjoy a popularity which must have excited the envy of Mr. Supplehouse, and which certainly was not altogether to the taste of Mrs. Proudie—who, however, fêted her as much as did the others. So that our clergyman found himself unable to obtain more than an inconsiderable share of the lady’s attention. “Bishop,” said she, speaking across the table, “we have missed you so all day! we have had no one on earth to say a word to us.” “My dear Miss Dunstable, had I known that— But I really was engaged on business of some importance.” “I don’t believe in business of importance; do you, Mrs. Smith?” “Do I not?” said Mrs. Smith. “If you were married to Mr. Harold Smith for one week, you’d believe in it.” “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 neighbour on her right hand. “I cannot compare myself to Harold Smith,” said he. “But perhaps I may equal the bishop.” “What does a man do, now, when he sits 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?”