The archdeacon was perfectly aware that he had to admit Mr Crawley to his goodwill, and that as for Grace Crawley—­it was essentially necessary that she should be admitted to his heart of hearts.  He had promised as much.  It must be acknowledged that Archdeacon Grantly always kept his promises, and especially such promises as these.  And indeed it was the nature of the man that when he had been angry with those he loved, he should be unhappy till he had found some escape from his anger.  He could not endure to have to own to himself that he had been wrong, but he could be content with a very incomplete recognition of his having been in the right.  The posters had been pulled down and Mr Crawley, as he was now told, had not stolen the cheque.  That was sufficient.  If his son would only drink a glass or two of wine with him comfortably, and talk dutifully about the Plumstead foxes, all should be held to be right, and Grace Crawley should be received with lavish paternal embraces.  The archdeacon had kissed Grace once, and he felt that he could do so again without an unpleasant strain upon his feelings.

‘Say something to your father about the property after dinner,’ said Mrs Grantly to her son when they were alone together.

‘About what property?’

’About this property, or any property; you know what I mean;—­something to show that you are interested about his affairs.  He is doing the best he can to make things right.’  After dinner, over the claret, Mr Thorne’s terrible sin in reference to the trapping of foxes was accordingly again brought up, and the archdeacon became beautifully irate, and expressed his animosity—­which he did not in the least feel—­against an old friend with an energy which would have delighted his wife, if she could have heard him.  ’I shall tell Thorne my mind, certainly.  He and I are very old friends; we have known each other all our lives; but I cannot put up with this kind of thing—­and I will not.  It’s all because he’s afraid of his own gamekeeper.’  And yet the archdeacon had never ridden after a fox in his life, and never meant to do so; nor had in truth been always so very anxious that foxes should be found in his covers.  That fox which had been so fortunately trapped just outside the Plumstead property afforded a most pleasant escape for the steam of his anger.  When he began to talk to his wife about Mr Thorne’s wicked gamekeeper, she was so sure that all was right, that she said a word of her extreme desire to see Grace Crawley.

‘If he’s to marry her, we might as well have her over here,’ said the archdeacon.

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ said Mrs Grantly.  And thus things at the rectory got themselves arranged.