“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 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 and his work. His desire for her further acquaintance was therefore somewhat moderated, and he was not prepared to answer her question with much zeal. “All parish clergymen have plenty of work, if they choose to do it.” “Ah, that is it; is it not, Mr. Robarts? If they choose to do it? A great many do--many that I know, do; and see what a result they have. But many neglect it--and see what a result _they_ have. I think it ought to be the happiest life that a man can lead, that of a parish clergyman, with a wife and family, and a sufficient income.” “I think it is,” said Mark Robarts, asking himself whether the contentment accruing to him from such blessings had made him satisfied at all points. He had all these things of which Miss Dunstable spoke, and yet he had told his wife, the other day, that he could not afford to neglect the acquaintance of a rising politician like Harold Smith.