“Well, there is something in that, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, who had certainly an impartial mind.

“It is, I fear, nothing more than a part of his general inaccuracy and indisposition to thoroughness of all kinds, which would be a bad augury for him in any profession, civil or sacred, even were he so far submissive to ordinary rule as to choose one.”

“Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded on his own unfitness,” said Dorothea, who was interesting herself in finding a favorable explanation.  “Because the law and medicine should be very serious professions to undertake, should they not?  People’s lives and fortunes depend on them.”

“Doubtless; but I fear that my young relative Will Ladislaw is chiefly determined in his aversion to these callings by a dislike to steady application, and to that kind of acquirement which is needful instrumentally, but is not charming or immediately inviting to self-indulgent taste.  I have insisted to him on what Aristotle has stated with admirable brevity, that for the achievement of any work regarded as an end there must be a prior exercise of many energies or acquired facilities of a secondary order, demanding patience.  I have pointed to my own manuscript volumes, which represent the toil of years preparatory to a work not yet accomplished.  But in vain.  To careful reasoning of this kind he replies by calling himself Pegasus, and every form of prescribed work `harness.’”

Celia laughed.  She was surprised to find that Mr. Casaubon could say something quite amusing.

“Well, you know, he may turn out a Byron, a Chatterton, a Churchill—­that sort of thing—­there’s no telling,” said Mr. Brooke.  “Shall you let him go to Italy, or wherever else he wants to go?”

“Yes; I have agreed to furnish him with moderate supplies for a year or so; he asks no more.  I shall let him be tried by the test of freedom.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Dorothea, looking up at Mr. Casaubon with delight.  “It is noble.  After all, people may really have in them some vocation which is not quite plain to themselves, may they not?  They may seem idle and weak because they are growing.  We should be very patient with each other, I think.”

“I suppose it is being engaged to be married that has made you think patience good,” said Celia, as soon as she and Dorothea were alone together, taking off their wrappings.

“You mean that I am very impatient, Celia.”

“Yes; when people don’t do and say just what you like.”  Celia had become less afraid of “saying things” to Dorothea since this engagement:  cleverness seemed to her more pitiable than ever.

CHAPTER X.

    “He had catched a great cold, had he had no other clothes
     to wear than the skin of a bear not yet killed.”—­FULLER.