s a woman who had known
some difficulty about marriage. Nay, the colors deepened, the lips and
chin seemed to get larger, the hair and eyes seemed to be sending out
light, the face was masculine and beamed on her with that full gaze
which tells her on whom it falls that she is too interesting for the
slightest movement of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted.
The vivid presentation came like a pleasant glow to Dorothea: she felt
herself smiling, and turning from the miniature sat down and looked up
as if she were again talking to a figure in front of her. But the
smile disappeared as she went on meditating, and at last she said
aloud--

"Oh, it was cruel to speak so! How sad--how dreadful!"

She rose quickly and went out of the room, hurrying along the corridor,
with the irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if
she could do anything for him. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr.
Casaubon was alone in the library. She felt as if all her morning's
gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad because of her
presence.

But when she reached the head of the dark oak there was Celia coming
up, and below there was Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and
congratulations with Mr. Casaubon.

"Dodo!" said Celia, in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister,
whose arms encircled her, and said no more. I think they both cried a
little in a furtive manner, while Dorothea ran down-stairs to greet her
uncle.

"I need not ask how you are, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, after kissing
her forehead. "Rome has agreed with you, I see--happiness, frescos,
the antique--that sort of thing. Well, it's very pleasant to have you
back again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is
a little pale, I tell him--a little pale, you know. Studying hard in
his holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one
time"--Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, but had turned his face
to Mr. Casaubon--"about topography, ruins, temples--I thought I had a
clew, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of
it. You may go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come
of it, you know."

Dorothea's eyes also were turned up to her husband's face with some
anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might
be aware of signs which she had not noticed.

"Nothing to alarm you, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, observing her
expression. "A little English bee