The dream-like association of something alien and ill-understood with the deepest secrets of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of loneliness which was due to the very ardor of Dorothea’s nature.  The country gentry of old time lived in a rarefied social air:  dotted apart on their stations up the mountain they looked down with imperfect discrimination on the belts of thicker life below.  And Dorothea was not at ease in the perspective and chilliness of that height.

“I shall not look any more,” said Celia, after the train had entered the church, placing herself a little behind her husband’s elbow so that she could slyly touch his coat with her cheek.  “I dare say Dodo likes it:  she is fond of melancholy things and ugly people.”

“I am fond of knowing something about the people I live among,” said Dorothea, who had been watching everything with the interest of a monk on his holiday tour.  “It seems to me we know nothing of our neighbors, unless they are cottagers.  One is constantly wondering what sort of lives other people lead, and how they take things.  I am quite obliged to Mrs. Cadwallader for coming and calling me out of the library.”

“Quite right to feel obliged to me,” said Mrs. Cadwallader.  “Your rich Lowick farmers are as curious as any buffaloes or bisons, and I dare say you don’t half see them at church.  They are quite different from your uncle’s tenants or Sir James’s—­monsters—­ farmers without landlords—­one can’t tell how to class them.”

“Most of these followers are not Lowick people,” said Sir James; “I suppose they are legatees from a distance, or from Middlemarch.  Lovegood tells me the old fellow has left a good deal of money as well as land.”

“Think of that now! when so many younger sons can’t dine at their own expense,” said Mrs. Cadwallader.  “Ah,” turning round at the sound of the opening door, “here is Mr. Brooke.  I felt that we were incomplete before, and here is the explanation.  You are come to see this odd funeral, of course?”

“No, I came to look after Casaubon—­to see how he goes on, you know.  And to bring a little news—­a little news, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, nodding at Dorothea as she came towards him.  “I looked into the library, and I saw Casaubon over his books.  I told him it wouldn’t do:  I said, `This will never do, you know:  think of your wife, Casaubon.’  And he promised me to come up.  I didn’t tell him my news:  I said, he must come up.”

“Ah, now they are coming out of church,” Mrs. Cadwallader exclaimed.  “Dear me, what a wonderfully mixed set!  Mr. Lydgate as doctor, I suppose.  But that is really a good looking woman, and the fair young man must be her son.  Who are they, Sir James, do you know?”

“I see Vincy, the Mayor of Middlemarch; they are probably his wife and son,” said Sir James, looking interrogatively at Mr. Brooke, who nodded and said—­

“Yes, a very decent family—­a very good fellow is Vincy; a credit to the manufacturing interest.  You have seen him at my house, you know.”