Will wrote from Rome, and began by saying that his obligations to Mr. Casaubon were too deep for all thanks not to seem impertinent.  It was plain that if he were not grateful, he must be the poorest-spirited rascal who had ever found a generous friend.  To expand in wordy thanks would be like saying, “I am honest.”  But Will had come to perceive that his defects—­defects which Mr. Casaubon had himself often pointed to—­needed for their correction that more strenuous position which his relative’s generosity had hitherto prevented from being inevitable.  He trusted that he should make the best return, if return were possible, by showing the effectiveness of the education for which he was indebted, and by ceasing in future to need any diversion towards himself of funds on which others might have a better claim.  He was coming to England, to try his fortune, as many other young men were obliged to do whose only capital was in their brains.  His friend Naumann had desired him to take charge of the “Dispute”—­the picture painted for Mr. Casaubon, with whose permission, and Mrs. Casaubon’s, Will would convey it to Lowick in person.  A letter addressed to the Poste Restante in Paris within the fortnight would hinder him, if necessary, from arriving at an inconvenient moment.  He enclosed a letter to Mrs. Casaubon in which he continued a discussion about art, begun with her in Rome.

Opening her own letter Dorothea saw that it was a lively continuation of his remonstrance with her fanatical sympathy and her want of sturdy neutral delight in things as they were—­an outpouring of his young vivacity which it was impossible to read just now.  She had immediately to consider what was to be done about the other letter:  there was still time perhaps to prevent Will from coming to Lowick.  Dorothea ended by giving the letter to her uncle, who was still in the house, and begging him to let Will know that Mr. Casaubon had been ill, and that his health would not allow the reception of any visitors.

No one more ready than Mr. Brooke to write a letter:  his only difficulty was to write a short one, and his ideas in this case expanded over the three large pages and the inward foldings.  He had simply said to Dorothea—­

“To be sure, I will write, my dear.  He’s a very clever young fellow—­ this young Ladislaw—­I dare say will be a rising young man.  It’s a good letter—­marks his sense of things, you know.  However, I will tell him about Casaubon.”

But the end of Mr. Brooke’s pen was a thinking organ, evolving sentences, especially of a benevolent kind, before the rest of his mind could well overtake them.  It expressed regrets and proposed remedies, which, when Mr. Brooke read them, seemed felicitously worded—­ surprisingly the right thing, and determined a sequel which he had never before thought of.  In this case, his pen found it such a pity young Ladislaw should not have come into the neighborhood. just at that time, in order that Mr. Brooke might make