How could it occur to her to examine the letter, to look at it critically as a profession of love?  Her whole soul was possessed by the fact that a fuller life was opening before her:  she was a neophyte about to enter on a higher grade of initiation.  She was going to have room for the energies which stirred uneasily under the dimness and pressure of her own ignorance and the petty peremptoriness of the world’s habits.

Now she would be able to devote herself to large yet definite duties; now she would be allowed to live continually in the light of a mind that she could reverence.  This hope was not unmixed with the glow of proud delight—­the joyous maiden surprise that she was chosen by the man whom her admiration had chosen.  All Dorothea’s passion was transfused through a mind struggling towards an ideal life; the radiance of her transfigured girlhood fell on the first object that came within its level.  The impetus with which inclination became resolution was heightened by those little events of the day which had roused her discontent with the actual conditions of her life.

After dinner, when Celia was playing an “air, with variations,” a small kind of tinkling which symbolized the aesthetic part of the young ladies’ education, Dorothea went up to her room to answer Mr. Casaubon’s letter.  Why should she defer the answer?  She wrote it over three times, not because she wished to change the wording, but because her hand was unusually uncertain, and she could not bear that Mr. Casaubon should think her handwriting bad and illegible.  She piqued herself on writing a hand in which each letter was distinguishable without any large range of conjecture, and she meant to make much use of this accomplishment, to save Mr. Casaubon’s eyes.  Three times she wrote.

My dear Mr. Casaubon,—­I am very grateful to you for loving me, and thinking me worthy to be your wife.  I can look forward to no better happiness than that which would be one with yours.  If I said more, it would only be the same thing written out at greater length, for I cannot now dwell on any other thought than that I may be through life
                Yours devotedly,
                        Dorothea Brooke.

Later in the evening she followed her uncle into the library to give him the letter, that he might send it in the morning.  He was surprised, but his surprise only issued in a few moments’ silence, during which he pushed about various objects on his writing-table, and finally stood with his back to the fire, his glasses on his nose, looking at the address of Dorothea’s letter.

“Have you thought enough about this, my dear?” he said at last.

“There was no need to think long, uncle.  I know of nothing to make me vacillate.  If I changed my mind, it must be because of something important and entirely new to me.”

“Ah!—­then you have accepted him?  Then Chettam has no chance?  Has Chettam offended you—­offended you, you know?  What is it you don’t like in Chettam?”