“Yes,” said Dorothea, with characteristic directness, “Sir James has been telling me that he is in hope of seeing a great change made soon in your management of the estate—­that you are thinking of having the farms valued, and repairs made, and the cottages improved, so that Tipton may look quite another place.  Oh, how happy!”—­ she went on, clasping her hands, with a return to that more childlike impetuous manner, which had been subdued since her marriage.  “If I were at home still, I should take to riding again, that I might go about with you and see all that!  And you are going to engage Mr. Garth, who praised my cottages, Sir James says.”

“Chettam is a little hasty, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, coloring slightly; “a little hasty, you know.  I never said I should do anything of the kind.  I never said I should not do it, you know.”

“He only feels confident that you will do it,” said Dorothea, in a voice as clear and unhesitating as that of a young chorister chanting a credo, “because you mean to enter Parliament as a member who cares for the improvement of the people, and one of the first things to be made better is the state of the land and the laborers.  Think of Kit Downes, uncle, who lives with his wife and seven children in a house with one sitting room and one bedroom hardly larger than this table!—­and those poor Dagleys, in their tumble-down farmhouse, where they live in the back kitchen and leave the other rooms to the rats!  That is one reason why I did not like the pictures here, dear uncle—­which you think me stupid about.  I used to come from the village with all that dirt and coarse ugliness like a pain within me, and the simpering pictures in the drawing-room seemed to me like a wicked attempt to find delight in what is false, while we don’t mind how hard the truth is for the neighbors outside our walls.  I think we have no right to come forward and urge wider changes for good, until we have tried to alter the evils which lie under our own hands.”

Dorothea had gathered emotion as she went on, and had forgotten everything except the relief of pouring forth her feelings, unchecked:  an experience once habitual with her, but hardly ever present since her marriage, which had been a perpetual struggle of energy with fear.  For the moment, Will’s admiration was accompanied with a chilling sense of remoteness.  A man is seldom ashamed of feeling that he cannot love a woman so well when he sees a certain greatness in her:  nature having intended greatness for men.  But nature has sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out her intention; as in the case of good Mr. Brooke, whose masculine consciousness was at this moment in rather a stammering condition under the eloquence of his niece.  He could not immediately find any other mode of expressing himself than that of rising, fixing his eye-glass, and fingering the papers before him.  At last he said—­

“There is something in what you say, my dear, something in what you say—­but not everything—­eh, Ladislaw?  You and I don’t like our pictures and statues being found fault with.  Young ladies are a little ardent, you know—­a little one-sided, my dear.  Fine art, poetry, that kind of thing, elevates a nation—­ emollit mores—­you understand a little Latin now.  But—­eh? what?”