he Doctor in the face, with his eyes turned to the ground,
but evidently with the determination to say what he thought, however
unpleasant it might be. "The fact is that you have fallen into
a--misfortune."

"I don't acknowledge it at all," said the Doctor.

"All your friends at any rate will think so, let the story be told as it
may. It was a misfortune that this lady whom you had taken into your
establishment should have proved not to be the gentleman's wife. When I
am taking a walk through the fields and get one of my feet deeper than
usual into the mud, I always endeavour to bear it as well as I may before
the eyes of those who meet me rather than make futile efforts to get rid
of the dirt and look as though nothing had happened. The dirt, when it is
rubbed and smudged and scraped is more palpably dirt than the honest mud."

"I will not admit that I am dirty at all," said the Doctor.

"Nor do I, in the case which I describe. I admit nothing; but I let those
who see me form their own opinion. If any one asks me about my boot I
tell him that it is a matter of no consequence. I advise you to do the
same. You will only make the smudges more palpable if you write to the
'Broughton Gazette."'

"Would you say nothing to the boys' parents?" asked the Doctor.

"There, perhaps, I am not a judge, as I never kept a school;--but I think
not. If any father writes to you, then tell him the truth."

If the matter had gone no farther than this, the Doctor might probably
have left Mr. Puddicombe's house with a sense of thankfulness for the
kindness rendered to him; but he did go farther, and endeavoured to
extract from his friend some sense of the injustice shown by the Bishop,
the Stantiloups, the newspaper, and his enemies in general through the
diocese. But here he failed signally. "I really think, Dr. Wortle, that
you could not have expected it otherwise."

"Expect that people should lie?"

"I don't know about lies. If people have told lies I have not seen them
or heard them. I don't think the Bishop has lied."

"I don't mean the Bishop; though I do think that he has shown a great want
of what I may call liberality towards a clergyman in his diocese."

"No doubt he thinks you have been wrong. By liberality you mean sympathy.
Why should you expect him to sympathise with your wrong-doing?"

"What have I done wrong?"

"You have countenanced immorality and deceit in a brother clergyman."

"I deny it," sai