The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last of the Mohicans

The bishop was but a man and said she might. After all, what was it but a request that he would confirm her daughter?— a request, indeed, very unnecessary to make, as he should do so as a matter of course if the young lady came forward in the usual way.
“The blood of Tiberius,” said the signora in all but a whisper; “the blood of Tiberius flows in her veins. She is the last of the Neros!”
The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last of the Mohicans, but to have the last of the Neros thus brought before him for a blessing was very staggering. Still he liked the lady: she had a proper way of thinking and talked with more propriety than her brother. But who were they? It was now quite clear that that blue madman with the silky beard was not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was married and was of course one of the Vicinironi’s by right of the husband. So the bishop went on learning.
“When will you see her? said the signora with a start.
“See whom?” said the bishop.
“My child,” said the mother.
“What is the young lady’s age?” asked the bishop.
“She is just seven,” said the signora.
“Oh,” said the bishop, shaking his head; “she is much too young — very much too young.”
“But in sunny Italy, you know, we do not count by years,” and the signora gave the bishop one of her very sweetest smiles.
“But indeed, she is a great deal too young,” persisted the bishop; “we never confirm before —”
“But you might speak to her; you might let her hear from your consecrated lips that she is not a castaway because she is a Roman; that she may be a Nero and yet a Christian; that she may owe her black locks and dark cheeks to the blood of the pagan Caesars and yet herself be a child of grace; you will tell her this, won’t you, my friend?”
The friend said he would and asked if the child could say her catechism.
“No,” said the signora, “I would not allow her to learn lessons such as those in a land ridden over by priests and polluted by the idolatry of Rome. It is here, here in Barchester, that she must first be taught to lisp those holy words. Oh, that you could be her instructor!”
Now, Dr. Proudie certainly liked the lady, but, seeing that he was a bishop, it was not probable that he was going to instruct a little girl in the first rudiments of her catechism; so he said he’d send a teacher.
“But you’ll see her yourself, my lord?”
The bishop said he would, but where should he call.
“At Papa’s house,” said the Signora with an air of some little surprise at the question.