Dorothea did not withdraw her arm, but she could not venture to speak.  Mr. Casaubon did not say, “I wish to be alone,” but he directed his steps in silence towards the house, and as they entered by the glass door on this eastern side, Dorothea withdrew her arm and lingered on the matting, that she might leave her husband quite free.  He entered the library and shut himself in, alone with his sorrow.

She went up to her boudoir.  The open bow-window let in the serene glory of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast long shadows.  But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene.  She threw herself on a chair, not heeding that she was in the dazzling sun-rays:  if there were discomfort in that, how could she tell that it was not part of her inward misery?

She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had felt since her marriage.  Instead of tears there came words:—­

“What have I done—­what am I—­that he should treat me so?  He never knows what is in my mind—­he never cares.  What is the use of anything I do?  He wishes he had never married me.”

She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness.  Like one who has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance all the paths of her young hope which she should never find again.  And just as clearly in the miserable light she saw her own and her husband’s solitude—­how they walked apart so that she was obliged to survey him.  If he had drawn her towards him, she would never have surveyed him—­never have said, “Is he worth living for?” but would have felt him simply a part of her own life.  Now she said bitterly, “It is his fault, not mine.”  In the jar of her whole being, Pity was overthrown.  Was it her fault that she had believed in him—­ had believed in his worthiness?—­And what, exactly, was he?—­ She was able enough to estimate him—­she who waited on his glances with trembling, and shut her best soul in prison, paying it only hidden visits, that she might be petty enough to please him.  In such a crisis as this, some women begin to hate.

The sun was low when Dorothea was thinking that she would not go down again, but would send a message to her husband saying that she was not well and preferred remaining up-stairs.  She had never deliberately allowed her resentment to govern her in this way before, but she believed now that she could not see him again without telling him the truth about her feeling, and she must wait till she could do it without interruption.  He might wonder and be hurt at her message.  It was good that he should wonder and be hurt.  Her anger said, as anger is apt to say, that God was with her—­ that all heaven, though it were crowded with spirits watching them, must be on her side.  She had determined to ring her bell, when there came a rap at the door.

Mr. Casaubon had sent to say that he would have his dinner in the library.  He wished to be quite alone this evening, being much occupied.