Chapter XVII brings Mr. Harding into direct conversation with Sir Abraham, the attorney-general, inside a room that speaks more of academic detachment than legal urgency. Books line the walls, but little of warmth exists between them, reflecting Sir Abraham’s personality—a man governed more by law than empathy. Mr. Harding arrives not seeking protection, but guidance. He is not concerned about winning a case, as it has already been withdrawn, but about understanding what is right. Sir Abraham, however, speaks in terms of entitlement and legality. According to documents, precedent, and legal standing, Mr. Harding has every right to remain as Warden and accept the income tied to the position. Still, Harding cannot shake the sense that, though legal, the arrangement may not be just. That difference—between what can be done and what should be done—weighs heavily on his spirit, a burden Sir Abraham cannot quite comprehend.

Sir Abraham’s manner is polished, precise, and entirely pragmatic. He listens to Mr. Harding with the patience of a seasoned professional, but with little emotional connection. To him, the situation is clear-cut: the lawsuit is over, the position is secure, and no wrongdoing has been proven. Yet for Harding, facts are not enough. He is haunted by the voices in The Jupiter, by public criticism, and most importantly, by his own conscience. The question is no longer about legality but about personal peace. Sir Abraham warns that to resign now would be both financially foolish and socially damaging. But Harding is not seeking approval—he is searching for clarity. And that clarity, he knows, won’t come from legal interpretation, but from within. His ethical conflict cannot be solved by a statute.

As the meeting continues, a stark contrast develops between the two men. Sir Abraham is a man of the system—detached, competent, and successful—but also limited in vision when it comes to moral nuance. Harding, on the other hand, is uncertain and anxious, yet morally courageous. He is willing to consider a future with fewer comforts if it means regaining his self-respect. Trollope uses this interaction to highlight how institutions, though structured and logical, can often overlook the personal toll of their decisions. Sir Abraham suggests compromise, delay, or recontextualization—tools of the professional world that often sidestep moral reckoning. But Harding sees those options as ways to postpone what he feels must be faced now. He does not want to explain away his discomfort. He wants to live without it.

When Harding raises the question of the founder’s original intention for the hospital—whether the funds were meant to enrich the Warden or serve the bedesmen—Sir Abraham again leans on legal interpretation. Intent, he suggests, is murky when filtered through years of legal precedent and structural change. But for Harding, that ambiguity is no relief. If the founder meant for the income to improve the lives of others and not provide luxury for a single man, then remaining in the post feels exploitative. No matter what Sir Abraham argues, Harding hears only one truth: if his role no longer aligns with the spirit of service it once represented, then it must be left behind. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if it invites criticism from those closest to him.

This chapter quietly underscores a larger truth—that the pursuit of justice does not always end in courtrooms. Sometimes it plays out in private, in the stillness of a decision that no one applauds but which changes everything. Mr. Harding’s moral struggle deepens here, not through action, but reflection. He leaves the meeting not with new information, but with a stronger sense that his feelings are not a weakness—they are a compass. Trollope’s critique of the impersonal machinery of law comes through not in hostility but in contrast. Sir Abraham is not a villain; he is simply unequipped to deal with the personal weight of moral burden. And in that absence of understanding, Harding finds his resolve.

The significance of this chapter extends beyond the resignation itself. It captures a moment where character outweighs career, where self-awareness overrules external validation. Harding’s moral lens may not be practical, but it is pure. And that purity, in a world increasingly ruled by technicalities and appearances, feels quietly revolutionary. Trollope uses Harding’s unease to remind us that ethical decisions are rarely easy or profitable—but they are essential. They ask for sacrifice, for honesty, and for courage when there is no reward in sight. And in that courage, Trollope gives us one of the most compelling portrayals of conscience in Victorian literature. Harding’s choice is not yet made, but the road toward it is now clear.