It was known that Dr Proudie would have to appoint a warden for Hiram's Hospital, as the new law stated. No one imagined that he had any choice -- no one thought for a moment that he could appoint any other man than Mr Harding. Mr Harding himself, without giving the matter much thought, considered it certain that he would return to the warden's pleasant house and garden.

His lordship was at home, and the visitors were shown into the well-known room, where the good old bishop used to sit. Every piece of furniture was as familiar to them as their own, but they felt like strangers at once. They found Dr Proudie sitting in the old bishop's chair; they found Mr Slope standing where the archdeacon used to stand, but on the sofa they found Mrs Proudie -- and to find a lady invading the bishop's study was shocking indeed!

Mr Harding, therefore, had no personal interest in the appointment of Dr Proudie as bishop, and was quite prepared to welcome him to Barchester. After the Proudies' arrival, he and Dr Grantly went to the bishop's palace to introduce themselves.

There she was, however, and they could only make the best of it. They greeted his lordship, who introduced them to his lady wife. Then Mr Slope presented himself, offering a damp hand to his new enemy, Dr Grantly, who bowed, looked stiff, and wiped his hand with a pocket handkerchief. Mr Slope then descended to the level of the lower clergy, by speaking a few words to Mr Harding, before rejoining the conversation among the higher powers. There were four people in this group, each of whom considered himself or herself the most important person in Barchester; with such a difference of opinion they were not likely to get on pleasantly together.

"Dr Grantly," said Mrs Proudie with her sweetest smile, "you live at Plumstead, I believe, a little way out of Barchester. I do hope the distance is not too great for country visiting. I shall be glad to call on Mrs Grantly, as soon as our horses arrive here. At present they are in London, as the bishop still has meetings to attend there -- I fear the government cannot do without him! But when the horses do come down, I shall take the earliest opportunity of visiting Mrs Grantly."

Mr Slope opened his eyes very wide, but was not prepared to give up his darling project. "I fear there is a great deal of Sunday travelling here. I see from the timetable that there are three trains in and three out every Sunday. Don't you think, Dr Grantly, that a little energy on your part might get rid of this evil?"

"If you can withdraw the passengers, then I imagine the company will withdraw the trains," replied the archdeacon.

Dr Grantly bowed, and said nothing. He could have bought everything the Proudies owned and returned it to them as a gift, without much feeling the loss; he had provided a pair of horses for his wife's personal use since the day of his marriage.

"Are there arrangements for Sunday schools in the villages around Barchester, Dr Grantly?" asked Mr Slope.

"Oh!" replied the archdeacon casually. "Whether there is one or not depends on the local vicar's wife and daughters."

"But surely, Dr Grantly," said the lady, "surely, in our position, we should do all we can to stop such wickedness. Don't you think so, Mr Harding?" And she looked meaningfully at him.

Poor Mr Harding was not sure what he thought, and Dr Grantly, determined not to be told what he should do by a bishop's wife, turned his back on the sofa and asked the bishop if he found the palace comfortable. Dr Proudie himself seemed to have nothing to complain of, but Mr Slope gave a long list of repairs that needed to be done, and Mrs Proudie was not slow to add her voice to his. Finally and with great relief Dr Grantly and Mr Harding were able to bring their visit to an end.

"Good heavens!" cried the archdeacon furiously, once they were in the fresh air. Smoke seemed to be coming from under his hat, like an angry cloud.

"I don't think I shall ever like Mr Slope," said Mr Harding.

"Like him!" shouted the archdeacon. "How could any living thing like Mr Slope!"

"Nor Mrs Proudie either," said Mr Harding.

Then the archdeacon forgot himself, and used some very shocking expressions about the lady.

"The bishop seems a quiet enough man," suggested Mr Harding mildly.

"He's a fool!" cried Dr Grantly. "He has no real power or intelligence! No, it's that Mr Slope whom we have to deal with. Did you ever see anyone less like a gentleman? Did you hear him telling us what to think and what to do? How dare he!"

The service was very well performed. The prayers were respectfully said, and the music was beautifully sung by the best voices in Barchester, carefully trained by Mr Harding himself. Mr Slope rose to speak to his audience. He was listened to with breathless attention and considerable surprise.

Mr Slope, however, was better prepared for the attack than the archdeacon. Dr Proudie had told the Barchester clergy that Mr Slope would give the sermon at the cathedral service the next Sunday. On this occasion the bishop took his seat in the cathedral for the first time, and the good people of Barchester crowded into the great building, eager to see their new bishop and hear his chaplain's words of spiritual guidance. All the clergy attended the service too, even the archdeacon.

And as the two men walked away from the palace, the archdeacon had war in his heart. He was trying to think how Mr Slope could be driven out of Barchester, before his influence over the bishop could do any lasting damage.

The new residents of the bishop's palace felt as much hatred for Dr Grantly as he did for them, and they were also aware there was a battle to be fought.

The archdeacon and the rest of the clergy could not believe their ears. All their lives they had conducted services in the way they had considered most excellent, and now this young nobody dared to say they had been wrong! But at last Mr Slope sat down. The bishop, who had been the most surprised of them all, and whose hair almost stood on end with terror, gave the final blessing in a shaking voice, and the service was at an end.

Cleverly giving the impression that he was speaking on behalf of the bishop, Mr Slope made it very clear what would be expected from the Barchester clergy from now on. All the habits and customs which were dear to their hearts were held up to scorn. In particular, he explained how unnecessary church music was, and how much more meaningful the words of the church service were, if spoken rather than sung!

Over the next few days there was heated discussion of Mr Slope and his sermon. Against him were the archdeacon and almost all the clergy, who were so furious they decided he should never be allowed to give a sermon in the cathedral again. Poor Mr Harding began to have doubts about the value of church music; he had always been so proud of the singing in the cathedral, but he wondered if that was another thing he would have to give up, like the wardenship of Hiram's Hospital.

However, Eleanor Bold and her sister-in-law Mary Bold were not to be counted among these ladies. It was natural for Mr Harding's daughter to be proud of the cathedral's musical tradition, and angry with Mr Slope for criticizing it. And in such matters the widow Bold and her sister-in-law were in perfect agreement.

On Mr Slope's side, however, were one or two clergymen who thought it sensible to congratulate the chaplain on his sermon. They included Mr Quiverful, the vicar of Puddingdale, whose wife presented him every year with a fresh proof of her love, increasing his cares and, it is to be hoped, his happiness equally. Who can wonder that a vicar with fourteen living children and only ￡400 a year should wish to be polite to a Mr Slope? There were also a number of Barchester citizens who thought Mr Slope might be right. For too long the clergy had gone on in their old-fashioned ways; perhaps it was time to introduce some of the religious changes which were shaking up the outside world. This group consisted mostly of ladies; no gentleman could possibly be attracted by Mr Slope.

This is how Mr Slope was received. But when he left, he was allowed to bless the baby, to take each lady's hand and to depart like a trusted friend. How had he turned dislike into friendship and made his peace with these ladies so quickly?

The day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it, and expressed an opinion that Mr Slope was not quite as black as he had been painted. Mr Harding said little; he did not approve of the visit, but it was not his custom to speak evil of anyone. Instead he turned the conversation to the wardenship of Hiram's Hospital; he told Eleanor he expected the bishop to offer it to him, although at a reduced salary. It was annoying to have to accept the post as a gift from the bishop, especially if it came from the hands of the hated Slope, but he would certainly accept it. Eleanor was delighted at the thought of seeing her dear father happy in his old place at Hiram's Hospital again.

But Mr Slope himself persuaded them to think better of him. To their great surprise and no little fear, he came to call on them two weeks after his sermon. The great enemy of all that was good in Barchester entered their own sitting room, and they had no strong arm at hand for their protection. The widow held her baby tightly in her arms, and Mary Bold stood up ready to die in that baby's defence, if such a sacrifice might become necessary.

Mr Slope knew how to flatter and say a soft word in the proper place. If he had understood how to charm men as well as he charmed women, he might have risen to a high position.

Three months passed, and several changes were made in Barchester. Among other things, absentee clergymen had been recalled to their duties. One of these was Dr Vesey Stanhope, who was quite a stranger in the city. Twelve years ago he had gone to Italy to cure a sore throat, and that sore throat, although it never developed into anything serious, had enabled him to live there in comfortable idleness, while he paid junior clergymen to do his work at home. But when he received an almost threatening letter from Mr Slope, Dr Stanhope realized he would have to spend the summer months, at least, in his house in Barchester, otherwise his income from the Church might be discontinued.

So he and his charming but heartless family took up residence again in Barchester. His wife was still a handsome woman, even at fifty-five. She never appeared until between three and four in the afternoon, but when she did appear, she appeared at her best. Her dress was always perfect, but she had no other purpose in life than to dress well. Her elder daughter Charlotte, at thirty-five, was a fine young woman, who had taken all the cares of running the house off her mother's shoulders. She and she alone could persuade her father to consider worldly matters. She and she alone could control the foolishness of her brother and sister. She and she alone prevented the whole family from losing their good name and falling into beggary.

Dr Stanhope's younger daughter, Madeline, was a great beauty. She had spent her youth in Italy, where she had destroyed the hearts of many young men without once losing her own, although her reputation had suffered slightly as a result of these adventures. Why she had decided to marry Paulo Neroni, a man of no birth and no fortune, a man of evil temper and oily manners, was a mystery, but perhaps when the moment came, she had no choice. Six months after her marriage, however, she arrived at her father's house in Milan, a cripple and a mother.

Although forced to give up all movement in the world, Signora Neroni had no intention of giving up the world itself. She made arrangements to be carried to the theatres and parties she wished to attend. There, lying on a sofa, she would soon draw every interesting young man to her side by the power of her beauty. Her admirers were too blindly in love to see the cruelty, sharp intelligence and desire for power in her lovely eyes.

She had fallen, she said, and injured her knee, so that she was unable to walk normally. She had therefore made up her mind, once and for ever, that she would never attempt to move herself again. Soon people were saying that she owed her accident to her husband's violence, but she spoke little of Paulo Neroni, except to make it clear he was to be seen and heard of no more. The Stanhopes welcomed the unfortunate beauty and her small daughter into the family home.

On the evening in question, Mrs Proudie welcomed her guests to the palace's fine rooms, and Mr Slope rushed here and there, giving orders to the servants. The bishop kept tripping over a sofa that had been placed near the top of the stairs. One of his daughters told him it was for a lady with no legs, and he was dying of curiosity to see this strange lady.

The Stanhopes made their first public appearance at the Proudies' evening reception. This was an impressive event organized by Mr Slope, who invited all the gentlemen and ladies of Barchester and the surrounding villages. Hundreds of guests were expected at the party, and costly preparations were made, in spite of Mrs Proudie's frequent objections to the expense.

Her brother, Bertie, had received an excellent education, but was too idle to take up a profession. He was extremely handsome, with a long silky beard and clear blue eyes, and was continually declaring his love to ladies who pleased him, but, like Madeline, he appeared to have no heart to lose himself.

Bertie Stanhope, who was talking to the bishop, had the idea of moving Madeline's sofa slightly, to give everyone a little more room -- he gave it a push and it rushed halfway across the room. Mrs Proudie was standing with Mr Slope in front of Madeline, trying to be sociable, but she was not in the best of tempers; she found that whenever she spoke to the signora, that lady replied by speaking to Mr Slope. Mrs Proudie was just beginning to feel offended, when one of the sofa legs caught itself in her dress and carried part of the skirt away with an unpleasant tearing sound.

Soon Madeline's carriage arrived, and she was carried upstairs to the sofa. There she took up her position, lying on a red silk sheet and wearing a close-fitting white dress, with diamond bracelets on her beautiful arms. She was immediately the centre of attention, as she had intended to be.

Such destruction to a dress would cause passionate anger in any lady, and Mrs Proudie's expression, as she looked at Bertie Stanhope, was hardly human. Bertie, when he saw what he had done, threw himself on one knee before the lady.

"Unhand it, sir!" Mrs Proudie almost screamed.

"It's not me, it's the sofa," said Bertie, still on his knees.

"Let her brother take it to her, Mr Slope," replied Mrs Proudie. Her anger increased when she realized a few minutes later that he had disobeyed her order. "Such manners I never saw," she said furiously to herself. "I cannot and will not permit it." And she pushed her way through the crowd, following Mr Slope.

"Unhand it, sir!" said Mrs Proudie scornfully.

Just then the signora laughed, just loud enough to be heard. Mrs Proudie turned furiously upon her.

Madeline stared her full in the face for a moment, and then said to her brother, "Bertie, you fool, get up."

"Madam!" she said, her eyes flashing fire.

"Signora Neroni needs her supper, madam," answered Mr Slope with a bow and a false smile.

"Forgive me, madam, forgive me!" he cried wildly, trying to separate Mrs Proudie's dress from the sofa leg.

"You are not leaving our guests, Mr Slope," she said.

By now Mrs Proudie's daughters had arrived, and very soon they accompanied her out of the room to repair the damage to the dress. Meanwhile, Madeline took the opportunity to fascinate and charm Mr Slope. And when Mrs Proudie returned to the reception, she saw him carrying a selection of the most delicate dishes towards the signora's sofa.

Mr Slope knew the bishop had not asked for him, but he prepared to leave the room, all the same.

When she reached the sofa, she found the guilty pair alone together. The signora was sitting very comfortably, eating her supper, while Mr Slope was leaning over her, making sure she had everything she wanted. Mrs Proudie walked stiffly up to them, stared at them for a moment, and said, "Mr Slope, his lordship desires your presence in the dining room; you will join him there, if you please." She moved away like a ship in full sail.

"Yes, always the same, madam," said Mrs Proudie, returning. "Always equally against improper behaviour of any description," and she marched back through the room again.

"Is she always like this?" the signora asked him.

The signora could not follow her, but she laughed a long scornful laugh, sending the sound of it ringing after Mrs Proudie. She could not have thought of a better revenge.

Mrs Proudie could not fight back, because she had her guests to attend to. The reception was coming to an end, and the bishop's wife forced a smile as people said their goodbyes, but she was too angry to make it look convincing. And as Madeline Stanhope was carried out by her servants, Mrs Proudie watched her departing figure as if to say, "If ever you find yourself within these walls again, I'll teach you a lesson you will never forget."