He had driven through Florence; he saw the Venus de’ Medici, and he saw the Seggolia; he looked up from the side of the Duomo to the top of the Campanile, and he walked round the back of the cathedral itself; he tried to inspect the doors of the Baptistry, and declared that the ‘David’ was very fine.  Then he went back to the hotel, dined with Mrs Arabin, and started for England.

The dean was to have joined his wife at Venice, and then they were to have returned together, coming round by Florence.  Mrs Arabin had not, therefore, taken her things away from Florence when she left it, and had been obliged to return to pick them up on her journey homewards.  He—­the dean—­had been delayed in his Eastern travels.  Neither Syria or Constantinople had got themselves done as quickly as he had expected, and he had, consequently, twice written to his wife, begging her to pardon the transgression of his absence for even yet a few days longer.  ‘Everything, therefore,’ as Mrs Arabin said, ’has conspired to perpetuate this mystery, which a word from me would have solved.  I owe more to Mr Crawley than I can ever pay him.’

‘He will be very well paid, I think,’ said John, ’when he hears the truth.  If you could see the inside of his mind at this moment, I’m sure you’d find that he thinks he stole the cheque.’

’He cannot think that, Mr Eames.  Besides, at this moment I hope he has heard the truth.’

’That may be, but he did think so.  I do believe that he had not the slightest notion where he got it; and, which is more, not a single person in the whole county had a notion.  People thought that he had picked it up, and used it in his despair.  And the bishop has been so hard upon him.’

‘Oh, Mr Eames, that is the worst of all.’

‘So I am told.  The bishop has a wife, I believe.’

‘Yes, he has a wife, certainly,’ said Mrs Arabin.

‘And people say that she is not very good-natured.’

’There are some of us at Barchester who do not love her very dearly.  I cannot say that she is one of my own especial friends.’

‘I believe she has been very hard on Mr Crawley,’ said John Eames.

‘I should not be in the least surprised,’ said Mrs Arabin.

Then they reached Turin, and there, taking up ‘Galignani’s Messenger’ in the reading-room of Trompetta’s Hotel, John Eames saw that Mrs Proudie was dead.  ‘Look at that,’ said he, taking the paragraph to Mrs Arabin; ‘Mrs Proudie is dead!’ ‘Mrs Proudie dead!’ she exclaimed.  ’Poor woman!  Then there will be peace at Barchester!’ ’I never knew her very intimately,’ she afterwards said to her companion, ’and I do not know that I have a right to say that she ever did me an injury.  But I remember well her first coming into Barchester.  My sister’s father-in-law, the late bishop, was just dead.  He was a mild, kind, dear old man, whom my father loved beyond all the world, except his own children.  You may suppose