his acquaintance more fully, and that they might go over the long-neglected Italian drawings together—­it also felt such an interest in a young man who was starting in life with a stock of ideas—­that by the end of the second page it had persuaded Mr. Brooke to invite young Ladislaw, since he could not be received at Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange.  Why not?  They could find a great many things to do together, and this was a period of peculiar growth—­the political horizon was expanding, and—­in short, Mr. Brooke’s pen went off into a little speech which it had lately reported for that imperfectly edited organ the “Middlemarch Pioneer.”  While Mr. Brooke was sealing this letter, he felt elated with an influx of dim projects:—­a young man capable of putting ideas into form, the “Pioneer” purchased to clear the pathway for a new candidate, documents utilized—­who knew what might come of it all?  Since Celia was going to marry immediately, it would be very pleasant to have a young fellow at table with him, at least for a time.

But he went away without telling Dorothea what he had put into the letter, for she was engaged with her husband, and—­in fact, these things were of no importance to her.

CHAPTER XXXI.

    How will you know the pitch of that great bell
    Too large for you to stir?  Let but a flute
    Play ’neath the fine-mixed metal listen close
    Till the right note flows forth, a silvery rill. 
    Then shall the huge bell tremble—­then the mass
    With myriad waves concurrent shall respond
    In low soft unison.

Lydgate that evening spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs. Casaubon, and laid some emphasis on the strong feeling she appeared to have for that formal studious man thirty years older than herself.

“Of course she is devoted to her husband,” said Rosamond, implying a notion of necessary sequence which the scientific man regarded as the prettiest possible for a woman; but she was thinking at the same time that it was not so very melancholy to be mistress of Lowick Manor with a husband likely to die soon.  “Do you think her very handsome?”

“She certainly is handsome, but I have not thought about it,” said Lydgate.

“I suppose it would be unprofessional,” said Rosamond, dimpling.  “But how your practice is spreading!  You were called in before to the Chettams, I think; and now, the Casaubons.”

“Yes,” said Lydgate, in a tone of compulsory admission.  “But I don’t really like attending such people so well as the poor.  The cases are more monotonous, and one has to go through more fuss and listen more deferentially to nonsense.”

“Not more than in Middlemarch,” said Rosamond.  “And at least you go through wide corridors and have the scent of rose-leaves everywhere.”

“That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci,” said Lydgate, just bending his head to the table and lifting with his fourth finger her delicate handkerchief which lay at the mouth of her reticule, as if to enjoy its scent, while he looked at her with a smile.