He was standing on the hearthrug in the library at Lowick Grange, and speaking to Mr. Brooke. It was the day after Mr. Casaubon had been buried, and Dorothea was not yet able to leave her room.

“That would be difficult, you know, Chettam, as she is an executrix, and she likes to go into these things⁠—property, land, that kind of thing. She has her notions, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, sticking his eyeglasses on nervously, and exploring the edges of a folded paper which he held in his hand; “and she would like to act⁠—depend upon it, as an executrix Dorothea would want to act. And she was twenty-one last December, you know. I can hinder nothing.”