the sunshine, the familiar scene was changeless, and seemed to represent the prospect of her life, full of motiveless ease—­motiveless, if her own energy could not seek out reasons for ardent action.  The widow’s cap of those times made an oval frame for the face, and had a crown standing up; the dress was an experiment in the utmost laying on of crape; but this heavy solemnity of clothing made her face look all the younger, with its recovered bloom, and the sweet, inquiring candor of her eyes.

Her reverie was broken by Tantripp, who came to say that Mr. Ladislaw was below, and begged permission to see Madam if it were not too early.

“I will see him,” said Dorothea, rising immediately.  “Let him be shown into the drawing-room.”

The drawing-room was the most neutral room in the house to her—­ the one least associated with the trials of her married life:  the damask matched the wood-work, which was all white and gold; there were two tall mirrors and tables with nothing on them—­ in brief, it was a room where you had no reason for sitting in one place rather than in another.  It was below the boudoir, and had also a bow-window looking out on the avenue.  But when Pratt showed Will Ladislaw into it the window was open; and a winged visitor, buzzing in and out now and then without minding the furniture, made the room look less formal and uninhabited.

“Glad to see you here again, sir,” said Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind.

“I am only come to say good-by, Pratt,” said Will, who wished even the butler to know that he was too proud to hang about Mrs. Casaubon now she was a rich widow.

“Very sorry to hear it, sir,” said Pratt, retiring.  Of course, as a servant who was to be told nothing, he knew the fact of which Ladislaw was still ignorant, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, had not differed from his betrothed Tantripp when she said, “Your master was as jealous as a fiend—­and no reason.  Madam would look higher than Mr. Ladislaw, else I don’t know her.  Mrs. Cadwallader’s maid says there’s a lord coming who is to marry her when the mourning’s over.”

There were not many moments for Will to walk about with his hat in his hand before Dorothea entered.  The meeting was very different from that first meeting in Rome when Will had been embarrassed and Dorothea calm.  This time he felt miserable but determined, while she was in a state of agitation which could not be hidden.  Just outside the door she had felt that this longed-for meeting was after all too difficult, and when she saw Will advancing towards her, the deep blush which was rare in her came with painful suddenness.  Neither of them knew how it was, but neither of them spoke.  She gave her hand for a moment, and then they went to sit down near the window, she on one settee and he on another opposite.  Will was peculiarly uneasy:  it seemed to him not like Dorothea that the mere fact of her being a widow should cause such a change in her manner of receiving him; and he knew of no other condition which could have affected their previous relation to each other—­ except that, as his imagination at once told him, her friends might have been poisoning her mind with their suspicions of him.