Mr. Casaubon felt a surprise which was quite unmixed with pleasure, but he did not swerve from his usual politeness of greeting, when Will rose and explained his presence.  Mr. Casaubon was less happy than usual, and this perhaps made him look all the dimmer and more faded; else, the effect might easily have been produced by the contrast of his young cousin’s appearance.  The first impression on seeing Will was one of sunny brightness, which added to the uncertainty of his changing expression.  Surely, his very features changed their form, his jaw looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis.  When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light, and some persons thought they saw decided genius in this coruscation.  Mr. Casaubon, on the contrary, stood rayless.

As Dorothea’s eyes were turned anxiously on her husband she was perhaps not insensible to the contrast, but it was only mingled with other causes in making her more conscious of that new alarm on his behalf which was the first stirring of a pitying tenderness fed by the realities of his lot and not by her own dreams.  Yet it was a source of greater freedom to her that Will was there; his young equality was agreeable, and also perhaps his openness to conviction.  She felt an immense need of some one to speak to, and she had never before seen any one who seemed so quick and pliable, so likely to understand everything.

Mr. Casaubon gravely hoped that Will was passing his time profitably as well as pleasantly in Rome—­had thought his intention was to remain in South Germany—­but begged him to come and dine to-morrow, when he could converse more at large:  at present he was somewhat weary.  Ladislaw understood, and accepting the invitation immediately took his leave.

Dorothea’s eyes followed her husband anxiously, while he sank down wearily at the end of a sofa, and resting his elbow supported his head and looked on the floor.  A little flushed, and with bright eyes, she seated herself beside him, and said—­

“Forgive me for speaking so hastily to you this morning.  I was wrong.  I fear I hurt you and made the day more burdensome.”

“I am glad that you feel that, my dear,” said Mr. Casaubon.  He spoke quietly and bowed his head a little, but there was still an uneasy feeling in his eyes as he looked at her.

“But you do forgive me?” said Dorothea, with a quick sob.  In her need for some manifestation of feeling she was ready to exaggerate her own fault.  Would not love see returning penitence afar off, and fall on its neck and kiss it?

“My dear Dorothea—­`who with repentance is not satisfied, is not of heaven nor earth:’—­you do not think me worthy to be banished by that severe sentence,” said Mr. Casaubon, exerting himself to make a strong statement, and also to smile faintly.

Dorothea was silent, but a tear which had come up with the sob would insist on falling.