Thorne.’  Then he rode away, back through the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked with him leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly knew—­for he was thinking, thinking, thinking.  ’Well;—­if that ain’t the darn’dest thing that ever was,’ said Flurry; ’but I’ll tell the squire about Thorne’s man—­darned if I don’t.’ now, ‘the squire’ was young Squire Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds.

But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, thinking.  He could have heard nothing of his son to stir him more in his favour than this strong evidence of his partiality for foxes.  I do not mean it to be understood that the archdeacon regarded foxes as better than active charity, of a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or than self-denying temperance.  No doubt all these virtues did hold in his mind their proper places, altogether beyond contamination of foxes.  But he had prided himself on thinking that his son should be a country gentleman, and probably nothing doubting as to the major’s active charity and other virtues, was delighted to receive evidence of those tastes which he had ever wished to encourage in his son’s character.  Or rather, such evidence would have delighted him at any other time than the present.  Now it only added more gall to his cup.  ’Why should he teach himself to care for such things, when he has not the spirit to enjoy them,’ said the archdeacon to himself.  ’He is a fool—­a fool.  A man that has been married once, to go crazy after a little girl, that has hardly a dress to her back, and who never was in a drawing-room in her life!  Charles is the eldest, and he shall be the eldest.  It will be better to keep it together.  It is the way in which the country has become what it is.’  He was out nearly all day, and did not see his wife till dinner-time.  Her father, Mr Harding, was still with them, but had breakfasted in his own room.  Not a word, therefore, was said about Henry Grantly between the father and mother on that evening.

Mrs Grantly was determined that, unless provoked, she would say nothing to him till the following morning.  He should sleep upon his wrath before she spoke to him again.  And he was equally unwilling to recur to the subject.  Had she permitted, the next morning would have passed away, and no word would have been spoken.  But this would not have suited her.  She had his orders to write, and she had undertaken to obey these orders—­with the delay of one day.  Were she not to write at all—­or in writing to send no message from the father, there would be cause for further anger.  And yet this, I think, was what the archdeacon wished.

‘Archdeacon,’ she said, ‘I shall write to Henry today.’

‘Very well.’

‘And what am I to say from you?’

‘I told you yesterday what are my intentions.’

’I am not asking about that now.  We hope there will be years and years to come, in which you may change them, and shape them as you will.  What shall I tell him now from you?’