But this agreeable holiday freedom with which Lydgate hovered about the flower of Middlemarch, could not continue indefinitely.  It was not more possible to find social isolation in that town than elsewhere, and two people persistently flirting could by no means escape from “the various entanglements, weights, blows, clashings, motions, by which things severally go on.”  Whatever Miss Vincy did must be remarked, and she was perhaps the more conspicuous to admirers and critics because just now Mrs. Vincy, after some struggle, had gone with Fred to stay a little while at Stone Court, there being no other way of at once gratifying old Featherstone and keeping watch against Mary Garth, who appeared a less tolerable daughter-in-law in proportion as Fred’s illness disappeared.

Aunt Bulstrode, for example, came a little oftener into Lowick Gate to see Rosamond, now she was alone.  For Mrs. Bulstrode had a true sisterly feeling for her brother; always thinking that he might have married better, but wishing well to the children.  Now Mrs. Bulstrode had a long-standing intimacy with Mrs. Plymdale.  They had nearly the same preferences in silks, patterns for underclothing, china-ware, and clergymen; they confided their little troubles of health and household management to each other, and various little points of superiority on Mrs. Bulstrode’s side, namely, more decided seriousness, more admiration for mind, and a house outside the town, sometimes served to give color to their conversation without dividing them—­well-meaning women both, knowing very little of their own motives.

Mrs. Bulstrode, paying a morning visit to Mrs. Plymdale, happened to say that she could not stay longer, because she was going to see poor Rosamond.

“Why do you say `poor Rosamond’?” said Mrs. Plymdale, a round-eyed sharp little woman, like a tamed falcon.

“She is so pretty, and has been brought up in such thoughtlessness.  The mother, you know, had always that levity about her, which makes me anxious for the children.”

“Well, Harriet, if I am to speak my mind,” said Mrs. Plymdale, with emphasis, “I must say, anybody would suppose you and Mr. Bulstrode would be delighted with what has happened, for you have done everything to put Mr. Lydgate forward.”

“Selina, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, in genuine surprise.

“Not but what I am truly thankful for Ned’s sake,” said Mrs. Plymdale.  “He could certainly better afford to keep such a wife than some people can; but I should wish him to look elsewhere.  Still a mother has anxieties, and some young men would take to a bad life in consequence.  Besides, if I was obliged to speak, I should say I was not fond of strangers coming into a town.”

“I don’t know, Selina,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, with a little emphasis in her turn.  “Mr. Bulstrode was a stranger here at one time.  Abraham and Moses were strangers in the land, and we are told to entertain strangers.  And especially,” she added, after a slight pause, “when they are unexceptionable.”