Dorothea was in fact thinking that it was desirable for Celia to know of the momentous change in Mr. Casaubon’s position since he had last been in the house:  it did not seem fair to leave her in ignorance of what would necessarily affect her attitude towards him; but it was impossible not to shrink from telling her.  Dorothea accused herself of some meanness in this timidity:  it was always odious to her to have any small fears or contrivances about her actions, but at this moment she was seeking the highest aid possible that she might not dread the corrosiveness of Celia’s pretty carnally minded prose.  Her reverie was broken, and the difficulty of decision banished, by Celia’s small and rather guttural voice speaking in its usual tone, of a remark aside or a “by the bye.”

“Is any one else coming to dine besides Mr. Casaubon?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I hope there is some one else.  Then I shall not hear him eat his soup so.”

“What is there remarkable about his soup-eating?”

“Really, Dodo, can’t you hear how he scrapes his spoon?  And he always blinks before he speaks.  I don’t know whether Locke blinked, but I’m sure I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he did.”

“Celia,” said Dorothea, with emphatic gravity, “pray don’t make any more observations of that kind.”

“Why not?  They are quite true,” returned Celia, who had her reasons for persevering, though she was beginning to be a little afraid.

“Many things are true which only the commonest minds observe.”

“Then I think the commonest minds must be rather useful.  I think it is a pity Mr. Casaubon’s mother had not a commoner mind:  she might have taught him better.”  Celia was inwardly frightened, and ready to run away, now she had hurled this light javelin.

Dorothea’s feelings had gathered to an avalanche, and there could be no further preparation.

“It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon.”

Perhaps Celia had never turned so pale before.  The paper man she was making would have had his leg injured, but for her habitual care of whatever she held in her hands.  She laid the fragile figure down at once, and sat perfectly still for a few moments.  When she spoke there was a tear gathering.

“Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy.”  Her sisterly tenderness could not but surmount other feelings at this moment, and her fears were the fears of affection.

Dorothea was still hurt and agitated.

“It is quite decided, then?” said Celia, in an awed under tone.  “And uncle knows?”

“I have accepted Mr. Casaubon’s offer.  My uncle brought me the letter that contained it; he knew about it beforehand.”

“I beg your pardon, if I have said anything to hurt you, Dodo,” said Celia, with a slight sob.  She never could have thought that she should feel as she did.  There was something funereal in the whole affair, and Mr. Casaubon seemed to be the officiating clergyman, about whom it would be indecent to make remarks.