"You are very good," said Ladislaw, beginning to lose his diffidence in

the interest with which he was observing the signs of weeping which had

altered her face. "My address is on my card. But if you will allow me

I will call again to-morrow at an hour when Mr. Casaubon is likely to

be at home."

"He goes to read in the Library of the Vatican every day, and you can

hardly see him except by an appointment. Especially now. We are about

to leave Rome, and he is very busy. He is usually away almost from

breakfast till dinner. But I am sure he will wish you to dine with us."

Will Ladislaw was struck mute for a few moments. He had never been

fond of Mr. Casaubon, and if it had not been for the sense of

obligation, would have laughed at him as a Bat of erudition. But the

idea of this dried-up pedant, this elaborator of small explanations

about as important as the surplus stock of false antiquities kept in a

vendor's back chamber, having first got this adorable young creature to

marry him, and then passing his honeymoon away from her, groping after

his mouldy futilities (Will was given to hyperbole)--this sudden

picture stirred him with a sort of comic disgust: he was divided

between the impulse to laugh aloud and the equally unseasonable impulse

to burst into scornful invective.

For an instant he felt that the struggle, was causing a queer

contortion of his mobile features, but with a good effort he resolved

it into nothing more offensive than a merry smile.

Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresistible, and shone back from

her face too. Will Ladislaw's smile was delightful, unless you were

angry with him beforehand: it was a gush of inward light illuminating

the transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve

and line as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, and

banishing forever the traces of moodiness. The reflection of that

smile could not but have a little merriment in it too, even under dark

eyelashes still moist, as Dorothea said inquiringly, "Something amuses

you?"

"Yes," said Will, quick in finding resources. "I am thinking of the

sort of figure I cut the first time I saw you, when you annihilated my

poor sketch with your criticism."

"My criticism?" said Dorothea, wondering still more. "Surely not. I

always feel particularly ignorant about painting."

"I suspected you of knowing so much, that you knew how to say just what

was most cutting. You said--I dare say you don't remember it as I

do--that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden from you.

At least, you implied that." Will could laugh now as well as smile.




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