“Indeed you mistake me.  I am not a sad, melancholy creature.  I am never unhappy long together.  I am angry and naughty—­not like Celia:  I have a great outburst, and then all seems glorious again.  I cannot help believing in glorious things in a blind sort of way.  I should be quite willing to enjoy the art here, but there is so much that I don’t know the reason of—­so much that seems to me a consecration of ugliness rather than beauty.  The painting and sculpture may be wonderful, but the feeling is often low and brutal, and sometimes even ridiculous.  Here and there I see what takes me at once as noble—­something that I might compare with the Alban Mountains or the sunset from the Pincian Hill; but that makes it the greater pity that there is so little of the best kind among all that mass of things over which men have toiled so.”

“Of course there is always a great deal of poor work:  the rarer things want that soil to grow in.”

“Oh dear,” said Dorothea, taking up that thought into the chief current of her anxiety; “I see it must be very difficult to do anything good.  I have often felt since I have been in Rome that most of our lives would look much uglier and more bungling than the pictures, if they could be put on the wall.”

Dorothea parted her lips again as if she were going to say more, but changed her mind and paused.

“You are too young—­it is an anachronism for you to have such thoughts,” said Will, energetically, with a quick shake of the head habitual to him.  “You talk as if you had never known any youth.  It is monstrous—­ as if you had had a vision of Hades in your childhood, like the boy in the legend.  You have been brought up in some of those horrible notions that choose the sweetest women to devour—­like Minotaurs And now you will go and be shut up in that stone prison at Lowick:  you will be buried alive.  It makes me savage to think of it!  I would rather never have seen you than think of you with such a prospect.”

Will again feared that he had gone too far; but the meaning we attach to words depends on our feeling, and his tone of angry regret had so much kindness in it for Dorothea’s heart, which had always been giving out ardor and had never been fed with much from the living beings around her, that she felt a new sense of gratitude and answered with a gentle smile—­

“It is very good of you to be anxious about me.  It is because you did not like Lowick yourself:  you had set your heart on another kind of life.  But Lowick is my chosen home.”

The last sentence was spoken with an almost solemn cadence, and Will did not know what to say, since it would not be useful for him to embrace her slippers, and tell her that he would die for her:  it was clear that she required nothing of the sort; and they were both silent for a moment or two, when Dorothea began again with an air of saying at last what had been in her mind beforehand.