After that, the dean went to the palace.  There had never been any quarrelling between the bishop and the dean, either direct or indirect;—­nor, indeed, had the dean every quarrelled even with Mrs Proudie.  But he had belonged the anti-Proudie faction.  He had been brought into the diocese by the Grantly interest; and therefore, during Mrs Proudie’s lifetime, he had always been accounted among the enemies.  There had never been any real intimacy between the houses.  Each house had always been asked to dine with the other house once a year; but it had been understood that such dinings were ecclesiastico-official, and not friendly.  There had been the same outside diocesan civility between even the palace and Plumstead.  But now, when the great chieftain of the palace was no more, and the strength of the palace faction was gone, peace, or perhaps something more than peace—­amity, perhaps, might be more easily arranged with the dean than with the archdeacon.  In preparation for such arrangements the bishop had gone to Mr Harding’s funeral.

And now the dean went to the palace at the bishop’s behest.  He found his lordship alone, and was received with almost reverential courtesy.  He thought that the bishop was looking wonderfully aged since he last saw him, but did not perhaps take into account the absence of clerical sleekness which was incidental to the bishop’s private life in his private room, and perhaps in a certain measure to his recent affliction.  The dean had been in the habit of regarding Dr Proudie as a man almost young for his age—­having been in the habit of seeing him at his best, clothed in authority, redolent of the throne, conspicuous as regarded his apron and outward signs of episcopality.  Much of this was now absent.  The bishop, as he rose to greet the dean, shuffled with his old slippers, and his hair was not brushed so becomingly as used to be the case when Mrs Proudie was always near him.

It was necessary that a word should be said by each as to the loss which the other had suffered.  ‘Mr Dean,’ said his lordship, ’allow me to offer you my condolements in regard to the death of that very excellent clergyman and most worthy gentleman, your father-in-law.’

’Thank you, my lord.  He was excellent and worthy.  I do not suppose that I shall live to see any man who was more so.  You also have a great—­a terrible loss.’

‘Oh, Mr Dean, yes; yes, indeed, Mr Dean.  That was a loss.’

‘And hardly past the prime of life!’

’Ah, yes;—­just fifty-six—­and so strong!  Was she not?  At least everybody thought so.  And yet she was gone in a minute;—­gone in a minute.  I haven’t held my head up since, Mr Dean.’

‘It was a great loss, my lord; but you must struggle to bear it.’

’I do struggle.  I am struggling.  But it makes one feel so lonely in this great house.  Ah me!  I often wish, Mr Dean, that it had pleased Providence to have left me in some humble parsonage, where duty would have been easier than it is here.  But I will not trouble you with all that.  What are we to do, Mr Dean, about this poor Mr Crawley.’