Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresistible, and shone back from her face too.  Will Ladislaw’s smile was delightful, unless you were angry with him beforehand:  it was a gush of inward light illuminating the transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve and line as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, and banishing forever the traces of moodiness.  The reflection of that smile could not but have a little merriment in it too, even under dark eyelashes still moist, as Dorothea said inquiringly, “Something amuses you?”

“Yes,” said Will, quick in finding resources.  “I am thinking of the sort of figure I cut the first time I saw you, when you annihilated my poor sketch with your criticism.”

“My criticism?” said Dorothea, wondering still more.  “Surely not.  I always feel particularly ignorant about painting.”

“I suspected you of knowing so much, that you knew how to say just what was most cutting.  You said—­I dare say you don’t remember it as I do—­ that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden from you.  At least, you implied that.”  Will could laugh now as well as smile.

“That was really my ignorance,” said Dorothea, admiring

Will’s good-humor.  “I must have said so only because I never could see any beauty in the pictures which my uncle told me all judges thought very fine.  And I have gone about with just the same ignorance in Rome.  There are comparatively few paintings that I can really enjoy.  At first when I enter a room where the walls are covered with frescos, or with rare pictures, I feel a kind of awe—­like a child present at great ceremonies where there are grand robes and processions; I feel myself in the presence of some higher life than my own.  But when I begin to examine the pictures one by on the life goes out of them, or else is something violent and strange to me.  It must be my own dulness.  I am seeing so much all at once, and not understanding half of it.  That always makes one feel stupid.  It is painful to be told that anything is very fine and not be able to feel that it is fine—­something like being blind, while people talk of the sky.”

“Oh, there is a great deal in the feeling for art which must be acquired,” said Will. (It was impossible now to doubt the directness of Dorothea’s confession.) “Art is an old language with a great many artificial affected styles, and sometimes the chief pleasure one gets out of knowing them is the mere sense of knowing.  I enjoy the art of all sorts here immensely; but I suppose if I could pick my enjoyment to pieces I should find it made up of many different threads.  There is something in daubing a little one’s self, and having an idea of the process.”

“You mean perhaps to be a painter?” said Dorothea, with a new direction of interest.  “You mean to make painting your profession?  Mr. Casaubon will like to hear that you have chosen a profession.”