Bishop Proudie sat alone in his study throughout the whole day.  Once or twice in the course of the morning his chaplain came to him on some matter of business, and was answered with a smile—­the peculiar softness of which the chaplain did not fail to attribute the right cause.  For it was soon known throughout the household that there had been a quarrel.  Could he quite have made up his mind to do so—­could he have resolved that it would be altogether better to quarrel with his wife—­the bishop would have appealed to the chaplain, and have asked at any rate for sympathy.  But even yet he could not bring himself to confess his misery, and to own himself to another to be the wretch that he was.  Then during the long hours of the day he sat thinking of it all.  How happy could he be if it were only possible for him to go away, and become even a curate in a parish, without his wife!  Would there ever come to him a time of freedom?  Would she ever die?  He was older than she, and of course he would die first.  Would it not be a fine thing if he could die at once, and thus escape from his misery.

What could he do, even supposing himself strong enough to fight the battle?  He could not lock her up.  He could not even very well lock her out of his room.  She was his wife, and must have the run of the house.  He could not altogether debar her from the society of the diocesan clergymen.  He had, on this very morning, taken strong measures with her.  More than once or twice he had desired her to leave the room.  What was there to be done with a woman who would not obey her husband—­who would not even leave him to the performance of his own work?  What a blessed thing it would be if a bishop could go away from his home to his work every day like a clerk in a public office—­as a stone-mason does!  But there was no such escape for him.  He could not go away.  And how was he to meet her again on this very day?

And then for hours he thought of Dr Tempest and Mr Crawley, considering what he had better do to repair the shipwreck of the morning.  At last he resolved that he would write to the doctor; and before he had again seen his wife, he did write his letter, and he sent it off.  In this letter he made no direct illusion to the occurrence of the morning, but wrote as though there had not been any fixed intention of a personal discussion between them.  ’I think it will be better that there should be a commission,’ he said, ’and I would suggest that you should have four other clergymen with you.  Perhaps you will select two yourself out of your rural deanery; and, if you do not object, I will name as the other two Mr Thumble and Mr Quiver, who are both resident in the city.’  As he wrote these two names he felt ashamed of himself, knowing that he had chosen the two men as being special friends of his wife, and feeling that he should have been brave enough to throw aside all considerations of his wife’s favour—­especially at this moment, in which he was putting on his armour