“Mrs. Cadwallader says it is nonsense, people going a long journey when they are married.  She says they get tired to death of each other, and can’t quarrel comfortably, as they would at home.  And Lady Chettam says she went to Bath.”  Celia’s color changed again and again—­seemed

    “To come and go with tidings from the heart,
     As it a running messenger had been.”

It must mean more than Celia’s blushing usually did.

“Celia! has something happened?” said Dorothea, in a tone full of sisterly feeling.  “Have you really any great news to tell me?”

“It was because you went away, Dodo.  Then there was nobody but me for Sir James to talk to,” said Celia, with a certain roguishness in her eyes.

“I understand.  It is as I used to hope and believe,” said Dorothea, taking her sister’s face between her hands, and looking at her half anxiously.  Celia’s marriage seemed more serious than it used to do.

“It was only three days ago,” said Celia.  “And Lady Chettam is very kind.”

“And you are very happy?”

“Yes.  We are not going to be married yet.  Because every thing is to be got ready.  And I don’t want to be married so very soon, because I think it is nice to be engaged.  And we shall be married all our lives after.”

“I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty.  Sir James is a good, honorable man,” said Dorothea, warmly.

“He has gone on with the cottages, Dodo.  He will tell you about them when he comes.  Shall you be glad to see him?”

“Of course I shall.  How can you ask me?”

“Only I was afraid you would be getting so learned,” said Celia, regarding Mr. Casaubon’s learning as a kind of damp which might in due time saturate a neighboring body.

CHAPTER XXIX.

    “I found that no genius in another could please me.  My
    unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of
    comfort.”—­GOLDSMITH.

One morning, some weeks after her arrival at Lowick, Dorothea—­ but why always Dorothea?  Was her point of view the only possible one with regard to this marriage?  I protest against all our interest, all our effort at understanding being given to the young skins that look blooming in spite of trouble; for these too will get faded, and will know the older and more eating griefs which we are helping to neglect.  In spite of the blinking eyes and white moles objectionable to Celia, and the want of muscular curve which was morally painful to Sir James, Mr. Casaubon had an intense consciousness within him, and was spiritually a-hungered like the rest of us.  He had done nothing exceptional in marrying—­nothing but what society sanctions, and considers an occasion for wreaths and bouquets.  It had occurred to him that he must not any longer defer his intention of matrimony, and he had reflected that in taking a wife, a man of good position should