1 Middlemarch
‘Master is out, sir; there’s only Mrs. Casaubon in the
library. I’d better tell her you’re here, sir,’ said Pratt, a red-
cheeked man given to lively converse with Tantripp, and
often agreeing with her that it must be dull for Madam.
‘Oh, very well; this confounded rain has hindered me
from sketching,’ said Will, feeling so happy that he affected
indifference with delightful ease.
In another minute he was in the library, and Dorothea
was meeting him with her sweet unconstrained smile.
‘Mr. Casaubon has gone to the Archdeacon’s,’ she said, at
once. ‘I don’t know whether he will be at home again long
before dinner. He was uncertain how long he should be.
Did you want to say anything particular to him?’
‘No; I came to sketch, but the rain drove me in. Else I
would not have disturbed you yet. I supposed that Mr.
Casaubon was here, and I know he dislikes interruption at
this hour.’
‘I am indebted to the rain, then. I am so glad to see you.’
Dorothea uttered these common words with the simple sin-
cerity of an unhappy child, visited at school.
‘I really came for the chance of seeing you alone,’ said
Will, mysteriously forced to be just as simple as she was. He
could not stay to ask himself, why not? ‘I wanted to talk
about things, as we did in Rome. It always makes a differ-
ence when other people are present.’
‘Yes,’ said Dorothea, in her clear full tone of assent. ‘Sit
down.’ She seated herself on a dark ottoman with the brown
books behind her, looking in her plain dress of some thin
woollen-white material, without a single ornament on her