Princhester was industrial and unashamed.  It was a countryside savagely invaded by forges and mine shafts and gaunt black things.  It was scarred and impeded and discoloured.  Even before that invasion, when the heather was not in flower it must have been a black country.  Its people were dour uncandid individuals, who slanted their heads and knitted their brows to look at you.  Occasionally one saw woods brown and blistered by the gases from chemical works.  Here and there remained old rectories, closely reminiscent of the dear old home at Otteringham, jostled and elbowed and overshadowed by horrible iron cylinders belching smoke and flame.  The fine old abbey church of Princhester, which was the cathedral of the new diocese, looked when first he saw it like a lady Abbess who had taken to drink and slept in a coal truck.  She minced apologetically upon the market-place; the parvenu Town Hall patronized and protected her as if she were a poor relation....

The old aristocracy of the countryside was unpicturesquely decayed.  The branch of the Walshinghams, Lady Ella’s cousins, who lived near Pringle, was poor, proud and ignoble.  And extremely unpopular.  The rich people of the country were self-made and inclined to nonconformity, the working-people were not strictly speaking a “poor,” they were highly paid, badly housed, and deeply resentful.  They went in vast droves to football matches, and did not care a rap if it rained.  The prevailing wind was sarcastic.  To come here from London was to come from atmospheric blue-greys to ashen-greys, from smoke and soft smut to grime and black grimness.

The bishop had been charmed by the historical associations of Princhester when first the see was put before his mind.  His realization of his diocese was a profound shock.

Only one hint had he had of what was coming.  He had met during his season of congratulations Lord Gatling dining unusually at the Athenaeum.  Lord Gatling and he did not talk frequently, but on this occasion the great racing peer came over to him.  “You will feel like a cherub in a stokehole,” Lord Gatling had said....

“They used to heave lumps of slag at old Hood’s gaiters,” said Lord Gatling.

“In London a bishop’s a lord and a lark and nobody minds him,” said Lord Gatling, “but Princhester is different.  It isn’t used to bishops....  Well,—­I hope you’ll get to like ’em.”

(3)

Trouble began with a fearful row about the position of the bishop’s palace.  Hood had always evaded this question, and a number of strong-willed self-made men of wealth and influence, full of local patriotism and that competitive spirit which has made England what it is, already intensely irritated by Hood’s prevarications, were resolved to pin his successor to an immediate decision.  Of this the new bishop was unaware.  Mindful of a bishop’s constant need to travel, he was disposed to seek a home within easy reach of Pringle Junction, from which