a look, without a move of the facial muscles; the true physician should hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had been more precious by the touch of gold.  Whereas, that fellow Thorne would lug out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it in change for a ten shilling piece.  And then it was clear that this man had no appreciation of the dignity of a learned profession.  He might constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the left hand of his front door; not making experiments philosophically in materials medica for the benefit of coming ages—­which, if he did, he should have done in the seclusion of his study, far from profane eyes—­but positively putting together common powders for rural bowels, or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural ailments.

A man of this sort was not fit for society for Dr Fillgrave of Barchester.  That must be admitted.  And yet he had been found to be fit society for the old squire of Greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons Dr Fillgrave would not have objected to tie; so high did the old squire stand in the county just previous to his death.  But the spirit of the Lady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsetshire, and when that good man died it was felt that Thorne’s short tenure of Greshamsbury favour was already over.  The Barsetshire regulars were, however, doomed to disappointment.  Our doctor had already contrived to endear himself to the heir; and though there was not even much personal love between him and the Lady Arabella, he kept his place at the great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the bedrooms, but also at the squire’s dining-table.

Now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make him unpopular with his brethren; and this feeling was soon shown in a marked and dignified manner.  Dr Fillgrave, who had certainly the most respectable professional connexion in the county, who had a reputation to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almost equal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis at the houses of the nobility—­Dr Fillgrave declined to meet Dr Thorne in consultation.  He exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly, the necessity he felt of doing so:  he had never before had to perform so painful a duty; but, as a duty which he owed to his profession, he must perform it.  With every feeling of respect for a Lady,—­a sick guest at Greshamsbury,—­and for Mr Gresham, he must decline to attend in conjunction with Dr Thorne.  If his services could be made available under any other circumstances, he would go to Greshamsbury as fast as post-horses could carry him.

Then, indeed, there was war in Barsetshire.  If there was on Dr Thorne’s cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that of combativeness.  Not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious, in the usual sense of the word; he had no disposition to provoke a fight, no propense love of quarrelling; but there was that in him which would allow him to yield to no attack.  Neither in argument nor in contest would he ever allow himself to be wrong; never at least to anyone but himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was ready to meet the world at large.