Miss Dunstable’s rooms, large as they were—“a noble suite of rooms certainly, though perhaps a little too—too—too scattered, we will say, eh, bishop?”—were now nearly full, and would have been inconveniently crowded, were it not that many who came only remained for half-an-hour or so. Space, however, had been kept for the dancers—much to Mrs. Proudie’s consternation. Not that she disapproved of dancing in London, as a rule; but she was indignant that the laws of a conversazione, as re-established by herself in the fashionable world, should be so violently infringed. “Conversaziones will come to mean nothing,” she said to the bishop, putting great stress on the latter word, “nothing at all, if they are to be treated in this way.” “No, they won’t; nothing in the least,” said the bishop. “Dancing may be very well in its place,” said Mrs. Proudie. “I have never objected to it myself; that is, for the laity,” said the bishop. “But when people profess to assemble for higher objects,” said Mrs. Proudie, “they ought to act up to their professions.” “Otherwise they are no better than hypocrites,” said the bishop. “A spade should be called a spade,” said Mrs. Proudie. “Decidedly,” said the bishop, assenting. “And when I undertook the trouble and expense of introducing conversaziones,” continued Mrs. Proudie, with an evident feeling that she had been ill-used, “I had no idea of seeing the word so—so—so misinterpreted;” and then observing certain desirable acquaintances at the other side of the room, she went across, leaving the bishop to fend for himself.