"Like him!" roared the archdeacon, standing still for a moment to
give more force to his voice; "like him!" All the ravens of the
close cawed their assent. The old bells of the tower, in chiming the
hour, echoed the words, and the swallows flying out from their nests
mutely expressed a similar opinion. Like Mr. Slope! Why no, it was
not very probable that any Barchester-bred living thing should like
Mr. Slope!

"Nor Mrs. Proudie either," said Mr. Harding.

The archdeacon hereupon forgot himself. I will not follow his
example, nor shock my readers by transcribing the term in which he
expressed his feeling as to the lady who had been named. The ravens
and the last lingering notes of the clock bells were less scrupulous
and repeated in correspondent echoes the very improper exclamation.
The archdeacon again raised his hat, and another salutary escape of
steam was effected.

There was a pause, during which the precentor tried to realize
the fact that the wife of a Bishop of Barchester had been thus
designated, in the close of the cathedral, by the lips of its own
archdeacon; but he could not do it.

"The bishop seems to be a quiet man enough," suggested Mr. Harding,
having acknowledged to himself his own failure.

"Idiot!" exclaimed the doctor, who for the nonce was not capable of
more than such spasmodic attempts at utterance.