‘Possible; yes, it is possible.  You mean, will it be prudent?’

‘Well, take it in that way; would it not be most imprudent?’

’At present, it certainly would be.  I have never spoken to either of them on the subject; but I presume they do not think of such a thing for the present.’

‘But, doctor—­’ The squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness of the doctor’s manner.  After all, he, the squire, was Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in Barsetshire; after all, Frank was his heir, and, in process of time, he would be Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury.  Crippled as the estate was, there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained.  But as to Mary, she was not even the doctor’s daughter.  She was not only penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless!  It was incredible that Dr Thorne, with his generally exalted ideas as to family, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriage between the heir of Greshamsbury and his brother’s bastard child!

‘But, doctor,’ repeated the squire.

The doctor put one leg over the other, and began to rub his calf.  ‘Squire,’ said he.  ’I think I know all that you would say, all that you mean.  And you don’t like to say it, because you would not wish to pain me by alluding to Mary’s birth.’

‘But, independently of that, what would they live on?’ said the squire, energetically.  ’Birth is a great thing, a very great thing.  You and I think exactly the alike about that, so we need have no dispute.  You are quite as proud of Ullathorne as I am of Greshamsbury.’

‘I might be if it belonged to me.’

’But you are.  It is no use arguing.  But, putting that aside altogether, what would they live on?  If they were to marry, what would they do?  Where would they go?  You know what Lady Arabella thinks of such things; would it be possible that they should live up at the house with her?  Besides, what a life would that be for both of them!  Could they live here?  Would that be well for them?’

The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went rubbing his calf.  Mr Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue his expostulation.

’When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something;—­something left for the poor fellow.  Lady Arabella and the girls would be better off, perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish, for Frank’s sake, that the time had come.’

The doctor could not now go on rubbing his knees.  He was moved to speak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which would be furthest from Frank’s heart.  ‘I know no son,’ said he, ’who loves his father more dearly than he does.’

‘I do believe it,’ said the squire; ’I do believe it.  But yet, I cannot but feel that I am in his way.’

’No, squire, no; you are in no one’s way.  You will find yourself happy with your son yet, and proud of him.  And proud of his wife, too.  I hope so, and I think so:  I do, indeed, or I should not say so, squire; we will have many a happy day yet together, when we shall talk of all these things over the dining-room fire at Greshamsbury.’