Lydgate found it more and more agreeable to be with her, and there was no constraint now, there was a delightful interchange of influence in their eyes, and what they said had that superfluity of meaning for them, which is observable with some sense of flatness by a third person; still they had no interviews or asides from which a third person need have been excluded.  In fact, they flirted; and Lydgate was secure in the belief that they did nothing else.  If a man could not love and be wise, surely he could flirt and be wise at the same time?  Really, the men in Middlemarch, except Mr. Farebrother, were great bores, and Lydgate did not care about commercial politics or cards:  what was he to do for relaxation?  He was often invited to the Bulstrodes’; but the girls there were hardly out of the schoolroom; and Mrs. Bulstrode’s naive way of conciliating piety and worldliness, the nothingness of this life and the desirability of cut glass, the consciousness at once of filthy rags and the best damask, was not a sufficient relief from the weight of her husband’s invariable seriousness.  The Vincys’ house, with all its faults, was the pleasanter by contrast; besides, it nourished Rosamond—­sweet to look at as a half-opened blush-rose, and adorned with accomplishments for the refined amusement of man.

But he made some enemies, other than medical, by his success with Miss Vincy.  One evening he came into the drawing-room rather late, when several other visitors were there.  The card-table had drawn off the elders, and Mr. Ned Plymdale (one of the good matches in Middlemarch, though not one of its leading minds) was in tete-a-tete with Rosamond.  He had brought the last “Keepsake,” the gorgeous watered-silk publication which marked modern progress at that time; and he considered himself very fortunate that he could be the first to look over it with her, dwelling on the ladies and gentlemen with shiny copper-plate cheeks and copper-plate smiles, and pointing to comic verses as capital and sentimental stories as interesting.  Rosamond was gracious, and Mr. Ned was satisfied that he had the very best thing in art and literature as a medium for “paying addresses”—­the very thing to please a nice girl.  He had also reasons, deep rather than ostensible, for being satisfied with his own appearance.  To superficial observers his chin had too vanishing an aspect, looking as if it were being gradually reabsorbed.  And it did indeed cause him some difficulty about the fit of his satin stocks, for which chins were at that time useful.

“I think the Honorable Mrs. S. is something like you,” said Mr. Ned.  He kept the book open at the bewitching portrait, and looked at it rather languishingly.

“Her back is very large; she seems to have sat for that,” said Rosamond, not meaning any satire, but thinking how red young Plymdale’s hands were, and wondering why Lydgate did not come.  She went on with her tatting all the while.