"Well, I can't deny that either. I've often had to smooth over things that he has put wrong. He is a tiresome fellow, and there's no denying it. It would certainly be a good thing for the parish if he were got rid of. Still he hasn't done anything that he could be got rid of for, and I don't see how you're going to bring it about."
Worthing stared and laughed again. "I should like to be there when you do it," he said.
"I don't think you would. If you thought I was getting the better of him you'd want to take his part. That's what you're made like."
"Oh, I don't know about that. But I do like to keep the peace."
"If we can persuade Mr. Mercer to take himself off, I hope we shall get somebody here who'll help you. We'd better go up to the girls now. They'll be wanting their bridge."
When the Vicar walked up to the Abbey the next morning in answer to Grafton's note requesting an interview, it was with anticipations not unpleasurable. Somehow, he had never succeeded in gaining the footing of intimacy with his chief parishioners that he felt to be his due. It was even some weeks now since he had been invited to the house, and he had felt aggrieved about it, because in his position he ought to have been the most frequent guest at the only other house in the place occupied by such people as himself.
It had not always been so. On the Graftons' first arrival he had felt himself free to run in and out of the house on the most intimate terms, and had always been sure of a welcome, as was only right and proper. It had begun to steal over him lately, in wafts of cold suspicion, which he had put away from him whenever they approached, that his welcome had perhaps never been quite so warm as he had taken for granted. He had also begun to suspect that certain criticisms he had passed upon the Graftons--of course without meaning anything by them--might have come to their ears, and accounted for the cessation of invitations, to lunch and to dine, which had never failed even after the running in and out showed itself to be not quite what they wanted. But this suspicion had stiffened him against them. If they proved themselves difficult to get on with, as so many people in this part of the world unfortunately did, he was not the man to give in to them. He had his own position of dignity and responsibility and would take his stand unflinchingly upon that. It was the duty of a Squire and a parson to keep on good terms with one another for the sake of example, especially when the people of a parish were so quarrelsome and difficult to manage as they were at Abington. He had done all he could to bring that happy state of things about. If the other party was blind to the advantages, nay to the Christian duty, of such an understanding, then he must pursue his course unflinchingly apart. On no account would he knuckle under, and debase his sacred profession.