There was no mistaking this simplicity, and Will was won by it into

frankness. "A man must have a very rare genius to make changes of that

sort. I am afraid mine would not carry me even to the pitch of doing

well what has been done already, at least not so well as to make it

worth while. And I should never succeed in anything by dint of

drudgery. If things don't come easily to me I never get them."

"I have heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets your want of patience,"

said Dorothea, gently. She was rather shocked at this mode of taking

all life as a holiday.

"Yes, I know Mr. Casaubon's opinion. He and I differ."

The slight streak of contempt in this hasty reply offended Dorothea.

She was all the more susceptible about Mr. Casaubon because of her

morning's trouble.

"Certainly you differ," she said, rather proudly. "I did not think of

comparing you: such power of persevering devoted labor as Mr.

Casaubon's is not common."

Will saw that she was offended, but this only gave an additional

impulse to the new irritation of his latent dislike towards Mr.

Casaubon. It was too intolerable that Dorothea should be worshipping

this husband: such weakness in a woman is pleasant to no man but the

husband in question. Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out

of their neighbor's buzzing glory, and think that such killing is no

murder.

"No, indeed," he answered, promptly. "And therefore it is a pity that

it should be thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want

of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world. If Mr.

Casaubon read German he would save himself a great deal of trouble."

"I do not understand you," said Dorothea, startled and anxious.

"I merely mean," said Will, in an offhand way, "that the Germans have

taken the lead in historical inquiries, and they laugh at results which

are got by groping about in woods with a pocket-compass while they have

made good roads. When I was with Mr. Casaubon I saw that he deafened

himself in that direction: it was almost against his will that he read

a Latin treatise written by a German. I was very sorry."

Will only thought of giving a good pinch that would annihilate that

vaunted laboriousness, and was unable to imagine the mode in which

Dorothea would be wounded. Young Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deep

himself in German writers; but very little achievement is required in

order to pity another man's shortcomings.

Poor Dorothea felt a pang at the thought that the labor of her

husband's life might be void, which left her no energy to spare for the

question whether this young relative who was so much obliged to him

ought not to have repressed his observation. She did not even speak,

but sat looking at her hands, absorbed in the piteousness of that

thought.




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