furtive manner, while Dorothea ran downstairs to greet her uncle.
“I need not ask how you are, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, after kissing her forehead. “Rome has agreed with you, I see—happiness, frescos, the antique—that sort of thing. Well, it’s very pleasant to have you back again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is a little pale, I tell him—a little pale, you know. Studying hard in his holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one time”— Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea’s hand, but had turned his face to Mr. Casaubon—“about topography, ruins, temples—I thought I had a clue, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of it. You may go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come of it, you know.”
Dorothea’s eyes also were turned up to her husband’s face with some anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be aware of signs which she had not noticed.
“Nothing to alarm you, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. “A little English beef and mutton will soon make a difference. It was all very well to look pale, sitting for the portrait of Aquinas, you know—we got your letter just in time. But Aquinas, now—he was a little too subtle, wasn’t he? Does anybody read Aquinas?”
“He is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds,” said Mr. Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience.
“You would like coffee in your own room, uncle?” said Dorothea, coming to the rescue.
“Yes; and you must go to Celia: she has great news to tell you, you know. I leave it all to her.”
The blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a pelisse exactly like her sister’s, surveying the cameos with a placid satisfaction, while the conversation passed on to other topics.