Langford frowned and moved his shoulders uneasily. ’The grave is cared for,’ said he in a churlish tone. ’Young Larry Nanspian sees to that,’ answered the clerk. ’If there be no other good in him there is that—he don’t forget what is due to his mother, though she be dead.’ Langford put his stick to the letters on the headstone. ’In loving memory of Blandina Nanspian, only daughter of Moses Langford, of Langford, gent.’ ’Oh!’ muttered Taverner, ’my father could call himself a gentleman when he had Chimsworthy as well as Langford, but I suppose I can’t call myself anything but yeoman on my poor farm. Blandina should never have married, and then Chimsworthy would not have gone out of the family.’ ’But to whom would both have gone after your death, Mr. Langford?’ asked the clerk. ’’Twould be a pity if an old ancient family like yours came to an end, and, I reckon, some day both will be joined again, by Mr. Larry.’ ’No, no!—no, no!’ growled Taverner, and walked away. He saw the rural dean and the rector coming through the churchyard gate. An hour later, Taverner was on his way home. He had paid the fee, made the necessary application, and would receive the licence on the morrow. It was too late for him to draw back, even had he been inclined. Taverner was a proud man, and he was obstinate. He flattered himself that when he had once resolved on a thing he always went through with it; no dissuasion, no impediments turned him aside. But he was not easy in mind as he walked home. Never before had he seen the family likeness so strong in Larry; he had caught an occasional look of his mother in the boy’s face before, but now that he was ill in mind and body the likeness was striking. Taverner still laid no great weight on Larry’s expressed attachment for Honor; he did not know that love was not a fiction, and was unable to conceive of it as anything more than a passing fancy. What really troubled the old man was the prospect of disarrangement of his accustomed mode of life. When he was married his wife would claim entrance into his parlour, and would meddle with what he had there, would use his desk, would come in and out when he was busy, would talk when he wanted quiet. A housekeeper could be kept in order by threat of dismissal, but a wife was tied for life. Then—how about Larry? He might forbid him the house, but would he keep away? Would not he insist on seeing his old friend and companion and love, Honor? That would be dangerous to his own peace of mind, might threaten his happiness. He remembered some words of Mrs. Veale, and his blood rushed through his head like a scalding wave. When he came to his door Mrs. Veale was there. She seemed to know by instinct his purpose in going to Bratton. ’Have you got it, master?’ she asked with husky voice and fluttering eyelids. ’Got what?’ ’What you went to get—the licence.’ ’It is coming by post to-morrow. Are you satisfied?’ he asked, sneering, and with a glance of dislike.