Will was not without his intentions to be always generous, but our tongues are little triggers which have usually been pulled before general intentions can be brought to bear.  And it was too intolerable that Casaubon’s dislike of him should not be fairly accounted for to Dorothea.  Yet when he had spoken he was rather uneasy as to the effect on her.

But Dorothea was strangely quiet—­not immediately indignant, as she had been on a like occasion in Rome.  And the cause lay deep.  She was no longer struggling against the perception of facts, but adjusting herself to their clearest perception; and now when she looked steadily at her husband’s failure, still more at his possible consciousness of failure, she seemed to be looking along the one track where duty became tenderness.  Will’s want of reticence might have been met with more severity, if he had not already been recommended to her mercy by her husband’s dislike, which must seem hard to her till she saw better reason for it.

She did not answer at once, but after looking down ruminatingly she said, with some earnestness, “Mr. Casaubon must have overcome his dislike of you so far as his actions were concerned:  and that is admirable.”

“Yes; he has shown a sense of justice in family matters.  It was an abominable thing that my grandmother should have been disinherited because she made what they called a mesalliance, though there was nothing to be said against her husband except that he was a Polish refugee who gave lessons for his bread.”

“I wish I knew all about her!” said Dorothea.  “I wonder how she bore the change from wealth to poverty:  I wonder whether she was happy with her husband!  Do you know much about them?”

“No; only that my grandfather was a patriot—­a bright fellow—­ could speak many languages—­musical—­got his bread by teaching all sorts of things.  They both died rather early.  And I never knew much of my father, beyond what my mother told me; but he inherited the musical talents.  I remember his slow walk and his long thin hands; and one day remains with me when he was lying ill, and I was very hungry, and had only a little bit of bread.”

“Ah, what a different life from mine!” said Dorothea, with keen interest, clasping her hands on her lap.  “I have always had too much of everything.  But tell me how it was—­ Mr. Casaubon could not have known about you then.”

“No; but my father had made himself known to Mr. Casaubon, and that was my last hungry day.  My father died soon after, and my mother and I were well taken care of.  Mr. Casaubon always expressly recognized it as his duty to take care of us because of the harsh injustice which had been shown to his mother’s sister.  But now I am telling you what is not new to you.”

In his inmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell Dorothea what was rather new even in his own construction of things—­ namely, that Mr. Casaubon had never done more than pay a debt towards him.  Will was much too good a fellow to be easy under the sense of being ungrateful.  And when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many ways of escaping from its bonds.