“Oh, rat his gamekeeper!” cried Thornby, petulantly. “You harp and harp on the gamekeeper!—the rascal cut you out with a girl, didn’t he? When it comes to that, what the devil do I mind as to the poaching business and such like? Neighbourly quarrels will arise, upon trespass and boundaries and so forth. No, ’tis none o’ that, for all the trouble he’s put me to. I’ll tell the truth, Bartholomew, ’tis the smooth way he has of taking me down whenever we meet,—waving me back to second place, like,—coming over me with his damned fine airs and glib speeches. That’s what rubs me the wrong way. _I_ was the fine gentleman in our neighbourhood till he came; and now—well, ecod, we shall see, we shall see!” This, indeed, was the true secret of the squire’s animosity, as it is of many a bitter hatred. It is easier for some men to forget a material injury to their rights or interests than a sentimental hurt to their vanity, and when they have to expect a repetition of the latter in some new form at every future encounter, they must be greater philosophers than Squire Thornby if they do not rage. Indeed, had Foxwell’s offence not been partly wilful, his superiority in mind and manner would alone have drawn the Squire’s hate. Thornby’s envy was not of the admiring sort that would emulate the merits of its object: it was of that churlish kind which, with no desire to possess those merits for their own sake, fiercely resents the superiority they imply. His dinner disposed of, he went down-stairs, treading heavily as he passed his enemy’s door, which was now closed. Bartholomew had told him of the company that had arrived, and he could hear their laughter as he went by. He peered into the kitchen to see what their servants looked like; and the magnificence of attire of their coachman, valet, and waiting-woman did not put him into any better humour. He then stepped into the yard and viewed their coach, and finally took notice of their horses feeding in the stalls. Seeing nothing he could disparage, he contented himself with a sniff of scorn at such extravagant fopperies, and betook himself to the public dining-room to wait while Bartholomew attended to his own appetite in the kitchen. The Squire had heard the arrival of the stage-coach some time before, and he now supposed there might be a congenial passenger or two with whom to exchange news.