between them—­ and yet more, her whole relation to Will Ladislaw.  Her world was in a state of convulsive change; the only thing she could say distinctly to herself was, that she must wait and think anew.  One change terrified her as if it had been a sin; it was a violent shock of repulsion from her departed husband, who had had hidden thoughts, perhaps perverting everything she said and did.  Then again she was conscious of another change which also made her tremulous; it was a sudden strange yearning of heart towards Will Ladislaw.  It had never before entered her mind that he could, under any circumstances, be her lover:  conceive the effect of the sudden revelation that another had thought of him in that light—­ that perhaps he himself had been conscious of such a possibility,—­ and this with the hurrying, crowding vision of unfitting conditions, and questions not soon to be solved.

It seemed a long while—­she did not know how long—­before she heard Celia saying, “That will do, nurse; he will be quiet on my lap now.  You can go to lunch, and let Garratt stay in the next room.”  “What I think, Dodo,” Celia went on, observing nothing more than that Dorothea was leaning back in her chair, and likely to be passive, “is that Mr. Casaubon was spiteful.  I never did like him, and James never did.  I think the corners of his mouth were dreadfully spiteful.  And now he has behaved in this way, I am sure religion does not require you to make yourself uncomfortable about him.  If he has been taken away, that is a mercy, and you ought to be grateful.  We should not grieve, should we, baby?” said Celia confidentially to that unconscious centre and poise of the world, who had the most remarkable fists all complete even to the nails, and hair enough, really, when you took his cap off, to make—­you didn’t know what:—­ in short, he was Bouddha in a Western form.

At this crisis Lydgate was announced, and one of the first things he said was, “I fear you are not so well as you were, Mrs. Casaubon; have you been agitated? allow me to feel your pulse.”  Dorothea’s hand was of a marble coldness.

“She wants to go to Lowick, to look over papers,” said Celia.  “She ought not, ought she?”

Lydgate did not speak for a few moments.  Then he said, looking at Dorothea.  “I hardly know.  In my opinion Mrs. Casaubon should do what would give her the most repose of mind.  That repose will not always come from being forbidden to act.”

“Thank you,” said Dorothea, exerting herself, “I am sure that is wise.  There are so many things which I ought to attend to.  Why should I sit here idle?” Then, with an effort to recall subjects not connected with her agitation, she added, abruptly, “You know every one in Middlemarch, I think, Mr. Lydgate.  I shall ask you to tell me a great deal.  I have serious things to do now.  I have a living to give away.  You know Mr. Tyke and all the—­” But Dorothea’s effort was too much for her; she broke off and burst into sobs.  Lydgate made her drink a dose of sal volatile.