The Rector walked home feeling restless and depressed. The mind had begun to work again. It was only by a great effort that he could turn his thoughts from the Squire, and all that the Squire had meant to him during the past year, and so woo back to himself ‘the shy bird Peace.’ Mr. Wendover watched the door close behind him, and then went back to his work with a gesture of impatience. ‘Once a priest, always a priest. What a fool I was to forget it! You think you make an impression on the mystic, and at the bottom there is always something which defies you and common-sense. “Two and two do not, and shall not, make four,”’ he said to himself, in a mincing voice of angry sarcasm. ‘“It would give me too much pain that they should.” ‘Well, and so I suppose what might have been a rational friendship will go by the board like everything else. What can make the man shilly-shally in this way! He is convinced already, as he knows--those later letters were conclusive! His living, perhaps, and hid work! Not for the money’s sake, there never was a more incredibly disinterested person born. But his work? Well, who is to hinder his work? Will he be the first parson in the Church of England who looks after the poor and holds his tongue? If you can’t speak your mind, it is something at any rate to possess one--nine-tenths of the clergy being without the appendage. But Elsmere--pshaw! he will go muddling on to the end of the chapter!’ The Squire, indeed, was like a hunter whose prey escapes him at the very moment of capture, and there grew on him a mocking, aggressive mood which Elsmere often found hard to bear. One natural symptom of it was his renewed churlishness as to all local matters. Elsmere one afternoon spent an hour in trying to persuade him to open the new Institute. ‘What on earth do you want me for?’ inquired Mr. Wendover, standing before the fire in the library, the Medusa head peering over his shoulder. ‘You know perfectly well that all the gentry about here--I suppose you will have some of them--regard me as an old reprobate, and the poor people, I imagine, as a kind of ogre. To me it doesn’t matter a two-penny damn--I apologize; it was the Duke of Wellington’s favorite standard of value--but I can’t, see what good it can do either you or the village, under the circumstances, that I should stand on my head for the popular edification.’