Mrs. Proudie was rather stern at breakfast, and the vicar of Framley felt an unaccountable desire to get out of the house. In the first place she was not dressed with her usual punctilious attention to the proprieties of her high situation. It was evident that there was to be a further toilet before she sailed up the middle of the cathedral choir. She had on a large loose cap with no other strings than those which were wanted for tying it beneath her chin, a cap with which the household and the chaplain were well acquainted, but which seemed ungracious in the eyes of Mr. Robarts after all the well-dressed holiday doings of the last week. She wore also a large, loose, dark-coloured wrapper, which came well up round her neck, and which was not buoyed out, as were her dresses in general, with an under mechanism of petticoats. It clung to her closely, and added to the inflexibility of her general appearance. And then she had encased her feet in large carpet slippers, which no doubt were comfortable, but which struck her visitor as being strange and unsightly. “Do you find a difficulty in getting your people together for early morning prayers?” she said, as she commenced her operations with the teapot. “I can’t say that I do,” said Mark. “But then we are seldom so early as this.” “Parish clergymen should be early, I think,” said she. “It sets a good example in the village.” “I am thinking of having morning prayers in the church,” said Mr. Robarts. “That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and usually means worse than nonsense. I know what that comes to. If you have three services on Sunday and domestic prayers at home, you do very well.” And so saying she handed him his cup. “But I have not three services on Sunday, Mrs. Proudie.” “Then I think you should have. Where can the poor people be so well off on Sundays as in church? The bishop intends to express a very strong opinion on this subject in his next charge; and then I am sure you will attend to his wishes.” To this Mark made no answer, but devoted himself to his egg. “I suppose you have not a very large establishment at Framley?” asked Mrs. Proudie. “What, at the parsonage?” “Yes; you live at the parsonage, don’t you?” “Certainly—well; not very large, Mrs. Proudie; just enough to do the work, make things comfortable, and look after the children.” “It is a very fine living,” said she; “very fine. I don’t remember that we have anything so good ourselves,—except it is Plumstead, the archdeacon’s place. He has managed to butter his bread pretty well.” “His father was Bishop of Barchester.” “Oh, yes, I know all about him. Only for that he would barely have risen to be an archdeacon, I suspect. Let me see; yours is £800, is it not, Mr. Robarts? And you such a young man! I suppose you have insured your life highly.” “Pretty well, Mrs. Proudie.”