‘I worked hard enough,’ said the archdeacon.

’Ah, yes; you.  But most of us took it very easily.  Dear, dear!  When I think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember what pleasant times we used to have—­I don’t feel sometimes quite sure.’

‘I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now,’ said the archdeacon.  ’There wasn’t so much fuss, but there was more reality.  And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen.’

‘Yes;—­they were gentlemen.’

’Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn’t have held his head up among us.  That’s what has come from Reform.  A reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your Prime Minister makes Dr Proudie a bishop!  Well;—­it will last my time, I suppose.’

‘It has lasted mine—­like the wine,’ said Mr Harding.

‘There’s one glass more, and you shall have it, sir.’  Then Mr Harding drank the last of the 1820 port, and they went into the drawing-room.

On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk by himself.  His father had suggested to him that he should go over to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the archdeacon possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns and carriages.  But the major would have none of these things.  He would go out and walk by himself.  ‘He’s not thinking of her; is he?’ said the archdeacon to his wife, in a whisper.  ‘I don’t know.  I think he is,’ said Mrs Grantly.  ’It will be so much better for Charles, if he does,’ said the archdeacon grimly; and the look of his face as he spoke was by no means pleasant.  ’You will do nothing unjust, archdeacon,’ said his wife.  ’I will do as I like with my own,’ said he.  And then he also went out and took a walk by himself.

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollection of old days.  They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together—­and dullness is always more endurable than sadness.  Old Mr Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross.  ‘Henry,’ he said, ‘you haven’t said a word to throw to a dog.’  ’I’ve got rather a headache this evening, sir,’ said the major.  The archdeacon drank two glasses of wine, one after another, quickly.  Then he woke his father-in-law gently, and went off.  ‘Is there anything the matter?’ asked the old man.  ‘Nothing particular.  My father seems a little cross.’  ’Ah!  I’ve been to sleep, and I oughtn’t.  It’s my fault.  We’ll go in and smooth him down.’  But the archdeacon wouldn’t be smoothed down on that occasion.  He would let his son see the difference between a father pleased, and a father displeased—­or rather between a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant.  ‘He hasn’t said anything to you, has he?’ said the archdeacon that night to his wife.  ‘Not a word;—­as yet.’  ’If he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think him a cur,’ said the archdeacon.  ‘But he did tell you,’ said Mrs Grantly, standing up for her favourite son; ’and, for the matter of that, he has courage enough for anything.  If he does it, I shall always say that he has been driven to it by your threats.’