Will offered to tell Mr. Brooke, who presently came and said that he would step into the carriage and go with Dorothea as far as Dagley’s, to speak about the small delinquent who had been caught with the leveret.  Dorothea renewed the subject of the estate as they drove along, but Mr. Brooke, not being taken unawares, got the talk under his own control.

“Chettam, now,” he replied; “he finds fault with me, my dear; but I should not preserve my game if it were not for Chettam, and he can’t say that that expense is for the sake of the tenants, you know.  It’s a little against my feeling:—­poaching, now, if you come to look into it—­I have often thought of getting up the subject.  Not long ago, Flavell, the Methodist preacher, was brought up for knocking down a hare that came across his path when he and his wife were walking out together.  He was pretty quick, and knocked it on the neck.”

“That was very brutal, I think,” said Dorothea

“Well, now, it seemed rather black to me, I confess, in a Methodist preacher, you know.  And Johnson said, `You may judge what a hypocrite he is.’  And upon my word, I thought Flavell looked very little like `the highest style of man’—­ as somebody calls the Christian—­Young, the poet Young, I think—­ you know Young?  Well, now, Flavell in his shabby black gaiters, pleading that he thought the Lord had sent him and his wife a good dinner, and he had a right to knock it down, though not a mighty hunter before the Lord, as Nimrod was—­I assure you it was rather comic:  Fielding would have made something of it—­or Scott, now—­Scott might have worked it up.  But really, when I came to think of it, I couldn’t help liking that the fellow should have a bit of hare to say grace over.  It’s all a matter of prejudice—­prejudice with the law on its side, you know—­about the stick and the gaiters, and so on.  However, it doesn’t do to reason about things; and law is law.  But I got Johnson to be quiet, and I hushed the matter up.  I doubt whether Chettam would not have been more severe, and yet he comes down on me as if I were the hardest man in the county.  But here we are at Dagley’s.”

Mr. Brooke got down at a farmyard-gate, and Dorothea drove on.  It is wonderful how much uglier things will look when we only suspect that we are blamed for them.  Even our own persons in the glass are apt to change their aspect for us after we have heard some frank remark on their less admirable points; and on the other hand it is astonishing how pleasantly conscience takes our encroachments on those who never complain or have nobody to complain for them.  Dagley’s homestead never before looked so dismal to Mr. Brooke as it did today, with his mind thus sore about the fault-finding of the “Trumpet,” echoed by Sir James.