Will only thought of giving a good pinch that would annihilate that vaunted laboriousness, and was unable to imagine the mode in which Dorothea would be wounded.  Young Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deep himself in German writers; but very little achievement is required in order to pity another man’s shortcomings.

Poor Dorothea felt a pang at the thought that the labor of her husband’s life might be void, which left her no energy to spare for the question whether this young relative who was so much obliged to him ought not to have repressed his observation.  She did not even speak, but sat looking at her hands, absorbed in the piteousness of that thought.

Will, however, having given that annihilating pinch, was rather ashamed, imagining from Dorothea’s silence that he had offended her still more; and having also a conscience about plucking the tail-feathers from a benefactor.

“I regretted it especially,” he resumed, taking the usual course from detraction to insincere eulogy, “because of my gratitude and respect towards my cousin.  It would not signify so much in a man whose talents and character were less distinguished.”

Dorothea raised her eyes, brighter than usual with excited feeling, and said in her saddest recitative, “How I wish I had learned German when I was at Lausanne!  There were plenty of German teachers.  But now I can be of no use.”

There was a new light, but still a mysterious light, for Will in Dorothea’s last words.  The question how she had come to accept Mr. Casaubon—­which he had dismissed when he first saw her by saying that she must be disagreeable in spite of appearances—­was not now to be answered on any such short and easy method.  Whatever else she might be, she was not disagreeable.  She was not coldly clever and indirectly satirical, but adorably simple and full of feeling.  She was an angel beguiled.  It would be a unique delight to wait and watch for the melodious fragments in which her heart and soul came forth so directly and ingenuously.  The AEolian harp again came into his mind.

She must have made some original romance for herself in this marriage.  And if Mr. Casaubon had been a dragon who had carried her off to his lair with his talons simply and without legal forms, it would have been an unavoidable feat of heroism to release her and fall at her feet.  But he was something more unmanageable than a dragon:  he was a benefactor with collective society at his back, and he was at that moment entering the room in all the unimpeachable correctness of his demeanor, while Dorothea was looking animated with a newly roused alarm and regret, and Will was looking animated with his admiring speculation about her feelings.