At dinner he was very silent, answering, however, with a sort of graceful stateliness any word that Mrs Grantly addressed to him.  Mr Thorne, of Ullathorne, was there also to meet his new vicar, as was also Mr Thorne’s very old sister, Miss Monica Thorne.  And Lady Anne Grantly was there—­she having come with the expressed intention that the wives of the two brothers should know each other—­but with a warmer desire, I think, of seeing Mr Crawley, of whom the clerical world had been talking since some notice of the accusations against him had become general.  There were, therefore, ten or twelve at the dinner-table, and Mr Crawley had not made one at such a board certainly since his marriage.  All went fairly smooth with him till the ladies left the room; for though Lady Anne, who sat at his left hand, had perplexed him somewhat with clerical questions, he had found that he was not called upon for much more than monosyllabic responses.  But in his heart he feared the archdeacon and he felt that when the ladies were gone the archdeacon would not leave him alone in his silence.

As soon as the door was closed, the first subject mooted was that of the Plumstead fox, which had been so basely murdered on Mr Thorne’s ground.  Mr Thorne had confessed the iniquity, had dismissed the murderous gamekeeper, and all was serene.  But the greater on that account was the feasibility of discussing the question, and the archdeacon had a good deal to say about it.  Then Mr Thorne turned to the new vicar, and asked him whether foxes abounded in Hogglestock.  Had he been asked as to the rats or moles, he would have known more about it.

’Indeed, sir, I know not whether or no there be any foxes in the parish of Hogglestock.  I do not remember me that I ever saw one.  It is an animal whose habits I have not watched.’

‘There is an earth at Hoggle Bushes,’ said the major; ’and I never knew it without a litter.’

‘I think I know the domestic whereabouts of every fox in Plumstead,’ said the archdeacon, with an ill-natured intention of astonishing Mr Crawley.

‘Of foxes with two legs our friend is speaking, without doubt,’ said the vicar of St Ewold’s, with an attempt at grim pleasantry.

’Of them we have none at Plumstead.  No—­I was speaking of the dear old fellow with the brush.  Pass the bottle, Mr Crawley.  Won’t you fill your glass?’ Mr Crawley passed the bottle, but would not fill the glass.  Then the dean, looking up slyly, saw the vexation written in the archdeacon’s face.  The parson whom the archdeacon feared most of all was the parson who wouldn’t fill his glass.

Then the subject was changed.  ’I’m told that the bishop has at last made his reappearance on his throne,’ said the archdeacon.

‘He was in the cathedral last Sunday,’ said the dean.

‘Does he ever mean to preach again?’ ‘He never did preach very often,’ said the dean.

‘A great deal too often, from all people say,’ said the archdeacon.  ’I never heard him myself, and never shall, I daresay.  You have heard him, Mr Crawley?’