.

Dorothea left Ladislaw's two letters unread on her husband's
writing-table and went to her own place, the scorn and indignation
within her rejecting the reading of these letters, just as we hurl away
any trash towards which we seem to have been suspected of mean
cupidity. She did not in the least divine the subtle sources of her
husband's bad temper about these letters: she only knew that they had
caused him to offend her. She began to work at once, and her hand did
not tremble; on the contrary, in writing out the quotations which had
been given to her the day before, she felt that she was forming her
letters beautifully, and it seemed to her that she saw the construction
of the Latin she was copying, and which she was beginning to
understand, more clearly than usual. In her indignation there was a
sense of superiority, but it went out for the present in firmness of
stroke, and did not compress itself into an inward articulate voice
pronouncing the once "affable archangel" a poor creature.

There had been this apparent quiet for half an hour, and Dorothea had
not looked away from her own table, when she heard the loud bang of a
book on the floor, and turning quickly saw Mr. Casaubon on the library
steps clinging forward as if he were in some bodily distress. She
started up and bounded towards him in an instant: he was evidently in
great straits for breath. Jumping on a stool she got close to his
elbow and said with her whole soul melted into tender alarm--

"Can you lean on me, dear?"

He was still for two or three minutes, which seemed endless to her,
unable to speak or move, gasping for breath. When at last he descended
the three steps and fell backward in the large chair which Dorothea had
drawn close to the foot of the ladder, he no longer gasped but seemed
helpless and about to faint. Dorothea rang the bell violently, and
presently Mr. Casaubon was helped to the couch: he did not faint, and
was gradually reviving, when Sir James Chettam came in, having been met
in the hall with the news that Mr. Casaubon had "had a fit in the
library."

"Good God! this is just what might have been expected," was his
immediate thought. If his prophetic soul had been urged to
particularize, it seemed to him that "fits" would have been the
definite expression alighted upon. He asked his informant, the butler,
whether the doctor had been sent for. The butler never knew his master
want the doctor before; but would it