“Thank you, you are very good.  I mean to give up riding.  I shall not ride any more,” said Dorothea, urged to this brusque resolution by a little annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting her attention when she wanted to give it all to Mr. Casaubon.

“No, that is too hard,” said Sir James, in a tone of reproach that showed strong interest.  “Your sister is given to self-mortification, is she not?” he continued, turning to Celia, who sat at his right hand.

“I think she is,” said Celia, feeling afraid lest she should say something that would not please her sister, and blushing as prettily as possible above her necklace.  “She likes giving up.”

“If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would be self-indulgence, not self-mortification.  But there may be good reasons for choosing not to do what is very agreeable,” said Dorothea.

Mr. Brooke was speaking at the same time, but it was evident that Mr. Casaubon was observing Dorothea, and she was aware of it.

“Exactly,” said Sir James.  “You give up from some high, generous motive.”

“No, indeed, not exactly.  I did not say that of myself,” answered Dorothea, reddening.  Unlike Celia, she rarely blushed, and only from high delight or anger.  At this moment she felt angry with the perverse Sir James.  Why did he not pay attention to Celia, and leave her to listen to Mr. Casaubon?—­if that learned man would only talk, instead of allowing himself to be talked to by Mr. Brooke, who was just then informing him that the Reformation either meant something or it did not, that he himself was a Protestant to the core, but that Catholicism was a fact; and as to refusing an acre of your ground for a Romanist chapel, all men needed the bridle of religion, which, properly speaking, was the dread of a Hereafter.

“I made a great study of theology at one time,” said Mr. Brooke, as if to explain the insight just manifested.  “I know something of all schools.  I knew Wilberforce in his best days.  Do you know Wilberforce?”

Mr. Casaubon said, “No.”

“Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I went into Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on the independent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at philanthropy.”

Mr. Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a wide field.

“Yes,” said Mr. Brooke, with an easy smile, “but I have documents.  I began a long while ago to collect documents.  They want arranging, but when a question has struck me, I have written to somebody and got an answer.  I have documents at my back.  But now, how do you arrange your documents?”

“In pigeon-holes partly,” said Mr. Casaubon, with rather a startled air of effort.

“Ah, pigeon-holes will not do.  I have tried pigeon-holes, but everything gets mixed in pigeon-holes:  I never know whether a paper is in A or Z.”

“I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle,” said Dorothea.  “I would letter them all, and then make a list of subjects under each letter.”