that he would go to live in London.  When she did not make this answer, she listened languidly, and wondered what she had that was worth living for.  The hard and contemptuous words which had fallen from her husband in his anger had deeply offended that vanity which he had at first called into active enjoyment; and what she regarded as his perverse way of looking at things, kept up a secret repulsion, which made her receive all his tenderness as a poor substitute for the happiness he had failed to give her.  They were at a disadvantage with their neighbors, and there was no longer any outlook towards Quallingham—­there was no outlook anywhere except in an occasional letter from Will Ladislaw.  She had felt stung and disappointed by Will’s resolution to quit Middlemarch, for in spite of what she knew and guessed about his admiration for Dorothea, she secretly cherished the belief that he had, or would necessarily come to have, much more admiration for herself; Rosamond being one of those women who live much in the idea that each man they meet would have preferred them if the preference had not been hopeless.  Mrs. Casaubon was all very well; but Will’s interest in her dated before he knew Mrs. Lydgate.  Rosamond took his way of talking to herself, which was a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as the disguise of a deeper feeling; and in his presence she felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of romantic drama which Lydgate’s presence had no longer the magic to create.  She even fancied—­what will not men and women fancy in these matters?—­ that Will exaggerated his admiration for Mrs. Casaubon in order to pique herself.  In this way poor Rosamond’s brain had been busy before Will’s departure.  He would have made, she thought, a much more suitable husband for her than she had found in Lydgate.  No notion could have been falser than this, for Rosamond’s discontent in her marriage was due to the conditions of marriage itself, to its demand for self-suppression and tolerance, and not to the nature of her husband; but the easy conception of an unreal Better had a sentimental charm which diverted her ennui.  She constructed a little romance which was to vary the flatness of her life:  Will Ladislaw was always to be a bachelor and live near her, always to be at her command, and have an understood though never fully expressed passion for her, which would be sending out lambent flames every now and then in interesting scenes.  His departure had been a proportionate disappointment, and had sadly increased her weariness of Middlemarch; but at first she had the alternative dream of pleasures in store from her intercourse with the family at Quallingham.  Since then the troubles of her married life had deepened, and the absence of other relief encouraged her regretful rumination over that thin romance which she had once fed on.  Men and women make sad mistakes about their own symptoms, taking their vague uneasy longings,