Middlemarch
opposite to him if he did.’
‘Celia,’ said Dorothea, with emphatic gravity, ‘pray don’t
make any more observations of that kind.’
‘Why not? They are quite true,’ returned Celia, who had
her reasons for persevering, though she was beginning to
be a little afraid.
‘Many things are true which only the commonest minds
observe.’
‘Then I think the commonest minds must be rather use-
ful. I think it is a pity Mr. Casaubon’s mother had not a
commoner mind: she might have taught him better.’ Celia
was inwardly frightened, and ready to run away, now she
had hurled this light javelin.
Dorothea’s feelings had gathered to an avalanche, and
there could be no further preparation.
‘It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged to marry
Mr. Casaubon.’
Perhaps Celia had never turned so pale before. The paper
man she was making would have had his leg injured, but for
her habitual care of whatever she held in her hands. She laid
the fragile figure down at once, and sat perfectly still for a
few moments. When she spoke there was a tear gathering
‘Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy.’ Her sisterly tender-
ness could not but surmount other feelings at this moment,
and her fears were the fears of affection.
Dorothea was still hurt and agitated.
‘It is quite decided, then?’ said Celia, in an awed under
tone. ‘And uncle knows?’
‘I have accepted Mr. Casaubon’s offer. My uncle brought