“So much the better,” thought Celia.  “But how strangely Dodo goes from one extreme to the other.”

The next day, at luncheon, the butler, handing something to Mr. Brooke, said, “Jonas is come back, sir, and has brought this letter.”

Mr. Brooke read the letter, and then, nodding toward Dorothea, said, “Casaubon, my dear:  he will be here to dinner; he didn’t wait to write more—­didn’t wait, you know.”

It could not seem remarkable to Celia that a dinner guest should be announced to her sister beforehand, but, her eyes following the same direction as her uncle’s, she was struck with the peculiar effect of the announcement on Dorothea.  It seemed as if something like the reflection of a white sunlit wing had passed across her features, ending in one of her rare blushes.  For the first time it entered into Celia’s mind that there might be something more between Mr. Casaubon and her sister than his delight in bookish talk and her delight in listening.  Hitherto she had classed the admiration for this “ugly” and learned acquaintance with the admiration for Monsieur Liret at Lausanne, also ugly and learned.  Dorothea had never been tired of listening to old Monsieur Liret when Celia’s feet were as cold as possible, and when it had really become dreadful to see the skin of his bald head moving about.  Why then should her enthusiasm not extend to Mr. Casaubon simply in the same way as to Monsieur Liret?  And it seemed probable that all learned men had a sort of schoolmaster’s view of young people.

But now Celia was really startled at the suspicion which had darted into her mind.  She was seldom taken by surprise in this way, her marvellous quickness in observing a certain order of signs generally preparing her to expect such outward events as she had an interest in.  Not that she now imagined Mr. Casaubon to be already an accepted lover:  she had only begun to feel disgust at the possibility that anything in Dorothea’s mind could tend towards such an issue.  Here was something really to vex her about Dodo:  it was all very well not to accept Sir James Chettam, but the idea of marrying Mr. Casaubon!  Celia felt a sort of shame mingled with a sense of the ludicrous.  But perhaps Dodo, if she were really bordering on such an extravagance, might be turned away from it:  experience had often shown that her impressibility might be calculated on.  The day was damp, and they were not going to walk out, so they both went up to their sitting-room; and there Celia observed that Dorothea, instead of settling down with her usual diligent interest to some occupation, simply leaned her elbow on an open book and looked out of the window at the great cedar silvered with the damp.  She herself had taken up the making of a toy for the curate’s children, and was not going to enter on any subject too precipitately.