Any inward debate Lydgate had as to the consequences of this engagement which had stolen upon him, turned on the paucity of time rather than of money.  Certainly, being in love and being expected continually by some one who always turned out to be prettier than memory could represent her to be, did interfere with the diligent use of spare hours which might serve some “plodding fellow of a German” to make the great, imminent discovery.  This was really an argument for not deferring the marriage too long, as he implied to Mr. Farebrother, one day that the Vicar came to his room with some pond-products which he wanted to examine under a better microscope than his own, and, finding Lydgate’s tableful of apparatus and specimens in confusion, said sarcastically—­

“Eros has degenerated; he began by introducing order and harmony, and now he brings back chaos.”

“Yes, at some stages,” said Lydgate, lifting his brows and smiling, while he began to arrange his microscope.  “But a better order will begin after.”

“Soon?” said the Vicar.

“I hope so, really.  This unsettled state of affairs uses up the time, and when one has notions in science, every moment is an opportunity.  I feel sure that marriage must be the best thing for a man who wants to work steadily.  He has everything at home then—­no teasing with personal speculations—­he can get calmness and freedom.”

“You are an enviable dog,” said the Vicar, “to have such a prospect—­ Rosamond, calmness and freedom, all to your share.  Here am I with nothing but my pipe and pond-animalcules.  Now, are you ready?”

Lydgate did not mention to the Vicar another reason he had for wishing to shorten the period of courtship.  It was rather irritating to him, even with the wine of love in his veins, to be obliged to mingle so often with the family party at the Vincys’, and to enter so much into Middlemarch gossip, protracted good cheer, whist-playing, and general futility.  He had to be deferential when Mr. Vincy decided questions with trenchant ignorance, especially as to those liquors which were the best inward pickle, preserving you from the effects of bad air.  Mrs. Vincy’s openness and simplicity were quite unstreaked with suspicion as to the subtle offence she might give to the taste of her intended son-in-law; and altogether Lydgate had to confess to himself that he was descending a little in relation to Rosamond’s family.  But that exquisite creature herself suffered in the same sort of way:—­ it was at least one delightful thought that in marrying her, he could give her a much-needed transplantation.

“Dear!” he said to her one evening, in his gentlest tone, as he sat down by her and looked closely at her face—­

But I must first say that he had found her alone in the drawing-room, where the great old-fashioned window, almost as large as the side of the room, was opened to the summer scents of the garden at the back of the house.  Her father and mother were gone to a party, and the rest were all out with the butterflies.