‘Yes, my dear, he did, and an unfortunate day it was for Barchester. As to those young men that have come up since’ (Mr Rerechild, by the by, was quite as old as Miss Thorne herself), ‘one doesn’t know where they came from or who they are, or whether they know anything about their business or not.’

‘I think there are very clever men in Barchester,’ said Eleanor.

‘Perhaps there may be; only I don’t know them; and it’s admitted on all sides that medical men aren’t now what they used to be. They used to be talented, observing, educated men. But now any whipper–snapper out of an apothecary’s shop can call himself a doctor. I believe no kind of education is now thought necessary.’

Eleanor was herself the widow of a medical man, and felt a little inclined to resent all these hard sayings. But Miss Thorne was so essentially good–natured that it was impossible to resent anything she said. She therefore sipped her wine and finished her chicken.

‘At any rate, my dear, don’t forget the carrot–juice, and by all means get him a coral at once. My grandmother Thorne had the best teeth in the county, and carried them to the grave with her at eighty. I have heard her say it was all the carrot–juice. She couldn’t bear the Barchester doctors. Even poor Dr Bumpwell didn’t please her.’ It clearly never occurred to Miss Thorne that some fifty years ago Dr Bumpwell was only a rising man, and therefore as much in need of character in the eyes of the then ladies of Ullathorne, as the present doctors were in her own.

The archdeacon made a very good lunch, and talked to his host about turnip–drillers and new machines for reaping; while the host, thinking it only polite to attend to a stranger, and fearing that perhaps he might not care about turnip crops on a Sunday, mooted all manner of ecclesiastical subjects.

‘I never saw a heavier lot of wheat, Thorne, than you’ve got there in the field beyond the copse. I suppose that’s guano,’ said the archdeacon.

‘Yes, guano. I get it from Bristol myself. You’ll find you often have a tolerable congregation of Barchester people out here, Mr Arabin. They are very fond of St Ewold’s, particularly of an afternoon, when the weather is not too hot for a walk.’

‘I am under an obligation to them for staying away today, at any rate,’ said the vicar. ‘The congregation can never be too small for a maiden sermon.’

‘I got a ton and a half at Bradley’s in High Street,’ said the archdeacon, ‘and it was a complete take in. I don’t believe there was five hundred–weight of guano in it.’

‘That Bradley never has anything good,’ said Miss Tborne, who had just caught the name during her whisperings with Eleanor. ‘And such a nice shop as there used to be in that very house before he came. Wilfred, don’t you remember what good things old Ambleoff used to have?’

‘There have been three men since Ambleoff’s time,’ said the archdeacon, ‘and each as bad as the other. But who gets it for you at Bristol, Thorne?’

‘I ran up myself this year and bought it out of the ship. I am afraid as the evenings get shorter, Mr Arabin, you’ll find the reading desk too dark. I must send a fellow with an axe and make him lop off some of those branches.’

Mr Arabin declared that the morning light at any rate was perfect, and deprecated any interference with the lime trees. And then they took a stroll out among the trim parterres, and Mr Arabin explained to Mrs Bold the difference between a naiad and a dryad, and dilated on vases and the shapes of urns. Miss Thorne busied herself among the pansies; and her brother, finding it quite impracticable to give