It happened to be on a Saturday evening that Will Ladislaw had that little discussion with Lydgate.  Its effect when he went to his own rooms was to make him sit up half the night, thinking over again, under a new irritation, all that he had before thought of his having settled in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Brooke.  Hesitations before he had taken the step had since turned into susceptibility to every hint that he would have been wiser not to take it; and hence came his heat towards Lydgate—­a heat which still kept him restless.  Was he not making a fool of himself?—­ and at a time when he was more than ever conscious of being something better than a fool?  And for what end?

Well, for no definite end.  True, he had dreamy visions of possibilities:  there is no human being who having both passions and thoughts does not think in consequence of his passions—­does not find images rising in his mind which soothe the passion with hope or sting it with dread.  But this, which happens to us all, happens to some with a wide difference; and Will was not one of those whose wit “keeps the roadway:”  he had his bypaths where there were little joys of his own choosing, such as gentlemen cantering on the highroad might have thought rather idiotic.  The way in which he made a sort of happiness for himself out of his feeling for Dorothea was an example of this.  It may seem strange, but it is the fact, that the ordinary vulgar vision of which Mr. Casaubon suspected him—­namely, that Dorothea might become a widow, and that the interest he had established in her mind might turn into acceptance of him as a husband—­ had no tempting, arresting power over him; he did not live in the scenery of such an event, and follow it out, as we all do with that imagined “otherwise” which is our practical heaven.  It was not only that he was unwilling to entertain thoughts which could be accused of baseness, and was already uneasy in the sense that he had to justify himself from the charge of ingratitude—­ the latent consciousness of many other barriers between himself and Dorothea besides the existence of her husband, had helped to turn away his imagination from speculating on what might befall Mr. Casaubon.  And there were yet other reasons.  Will, we know, could not bear the thought of any flaw appearing in his crystal:  he was at once exasperated and delighted by the calm freedom with which Dorothea looked at him and spoke to him, and there was something so exquisite in thinking of her just as she was, that he could not long for a change which must somehow change her.  Do we not shun the street version of a fine melody?—­or shrink from the news that the rarity—­some bit of chiselling or engraving perhaps—­ which we have dwelt on even with exultation in the trouble it has cost us to snatch glimpses of it, is really not an uncommon thing, and may be obtained as an every-day possession?  Our good depends on the quality and breadth of our emotion; and to Will,