“Music apart, he is not always very agreeable.  Do you like him?”

“Yes:  I think he is a good fellow:  rather miscellaneous and bric-a-brac, but likable.”

“Do you know, I think he adores Mrs. Casaubon.”

“Poor devil!” said Lydgate, smiling and pinching his wife’s ears.

Rosamond felt herself beginning to know a great deal of the world, especially in discovering what when she was in her unmarried girlhood had been inconceivable to her except as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes—­ that women, even after marriage, might make conquests and enslave men.  At that time young ladies in the country, even when educated at Mrs. Lemon’s, read little French literature later than Racine, and public prints had not cast their present magnificent illumination over the scandals of life.  Still, vanity, with a woman’s whole mind and day to work in, can construct abundantly on slight hints, especially on such a hint as the possibility of indefinite conquests.  How delightful to make captives from the throne of marriage with a husband as crown-prince by your side—­himself in fact a subject—­ while the captives look up forever hopeless, losing their rest probably, and if their appetite too, so much the better!  But Rosamond’s romance turned at present chiefly on her crown-prince, and it was enough to enjoy his assured subjection.  When he said, “Poor devil!” she asked, with playful curiosity—­

“Why so?”

“Why, what can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids?  He only neglects his work and runs up bills.”

“I am sure you do not neglect your work.  You are always at the Hospital, or seeing poor patients, or thinking about some doctor’s quarrel; and then at home you always want to pore over your microscope and phials.  Confess you like those things better than me.”

“Haven’t you ambition enough to wish that your husband should be something better than a Middlemarch doctor?” said Lydgate, letting his hands fall on to his wife’s shoulders, and looking at her with affectionate gravity.  “I shall make you learn my favorite bit from an old poet—­

`Why should our pride make such a stir to be
And be forgot?  What good is like to this,
To do worthy the writing, and to write
Worthy the reading and the worlds delight?’

What I want, Rosy, is to do worthy the writing,—­and to write out myself what I have done.  A man must work, to do that, my pet.”

“Of course, I wish you to make discoveries:  no one could more wish you to attain a high position in some better place than Middlemarch.  You cannot say that I have ever tried to hinder you from working.  But we cannot live like hermits.  You are not discontented with me, Tertius?”

“No, dear, no.  I am too entirely contented.”

“But what did Mrs. Casaubon want to say to you?”

“Merely to ask about her husband’s health.  But I think she is going to be splendid to our New Hospital:  I think she will give us two hundred a-year.”