“And now I hope I may never hear another word about New Guinea,” said Mr. Sowerby, as they all clustered round the drawing-room fire after church. “That subject may be regarded as having been killed and buried; eh, Harold?” “Certainly murdered last night,” said Mrs. Harold, “by that awful woman, Mrs. Proudie.” “I wonder you did not make a dash at her and pull her out of the arm-chair,” said Miss Dunstable. “I was expecting it, and thought that I should come to grief in the scrimmage.” “I never knew a lady do such a brazen-faced thing before,” said Miss Kerrigy, a travelling friend of Miss Dunstable’s. “Nor I—never; in a public place, too,” said Dr. Easyman, a medical gentleman, who also often accompanied her. “As for brass,” said Mr. Supplehouse, “she would never stop at anything for want of that. It is well that she has enough, for the poor bishop is but badly provided.” “I hardly heard what it was she did say,” said Harold Smith; “so I could not answer her, you know. Something about Sundays, I believe.” “She hoped you would not put the South Sea islanders up to Sabbath travelling,” said Mr. Sowerby. “And specially begged that you would establish Lord’s-day schools,” said Mrs. Smith; and then they all went to work and picked Mrs. Proudie to pieces, from the top ribbon of her cap down to the sole of her slipper. “And then she expects the poor parsons to fall in love with her daughters. That’s the hardest thing of all,” said Miss Dunstable. But, on the whole, when our vicar went to bed he did not feel that he had spent a profitable Sunday. CHAPTER VIII. GATHERUM CASTLE. On the Tuesday morning Mark did receive his wife’s letter and the ten-pound note, whereby a strong proof was given of the honesty of the post-office people in Barsetshire. That letter, written as it had been in a hurry, while Robin post-boy was drinking a single mug of beer,—well, what of it if it was half filled a second time?—was nevertheless eloquent of his wife’s love and of her great triumph. “I have only half a moment to send you the money,” she said, “for the postman is here waiting. When I see you I’ll explain why I am so hurried. Let me know that you get it safe. It is all right now, and Lady Lufton was here not a minute ago. She did not quite like it; about Gatherum Castle I mean; but you’ll hear _nothing about it_. Only remember that _you must dine_ at Framley Court on Wednesday week. _I have promised for you._ You will: won’t you, dearest? I shall come and fetch you away if you attempt to stay longer than you have said. But I’m sure you won’t. God bless you, my own one! Mr. Jones gave us the same sermon he preached the second Sunday after Easter. Twice in the same year is too often. God bless you! The children _are quite well_. Mark sends a big kiss.—Your own F.”