“I have no doubt she will,” said Lydgate, suppressing his thought about Dorothea’s looks, which were as much changed as Rosamond’s, “if you will be kind enough to come in and let me tell her that you are here.  She has not been very well since you were here yesterday, but she is better this morning, and I think it is very likely that she will be cheered by seeing you again.”

It was plain that Lydgate, as Dorothea had expected, knew nothing about the circumstances of her yesterday’s visit; nay, he appeared to imagine that she had carried it out according to her intention.  She had prepared a little note asking Rosamond to see her, which she would have given to the servant if he had not been in the way, but now she was in much anxiety as to the result of his announcement.

After leading her into the drawing-room, he paused to take a letter from his pocket and put it into her hands, saying, “I wrote this last night, and was going to carry it to Lowick in my ride.  When one is grateful for something too good for common thanks, writing is less unsatisfactory than speech—­one does not at least hear how inadequate the words are.”

Dorothea’s face brightened.  “It is I who have most to thank for, since you have let me take that place.  You have consented?” she said, suddenly doubting.

“Yes, the check is going to Bulstrode to-day.”

He said no more, but went up-stairs to Rosamond, who had but lately finished dressing herself, and sat languidly wondering what she should do next, her habitual industry in small things, even in the days of her sadness, prompting her to begin some kind of occupation, which she dragged through slowly or paused in from lack of interest.  She looked ill, but had recovered her usual quietude of manner, and Lydgate had feared to disturb her by any questions.  He had told her of Dorothea’s letter containing the check, and afterwards he had said, “Ladislaw is come, Rosy; he sat with me last night; I dare say he will be here again to-day.  I thought he looked rather battered and depressed.”  And Rosamond had made no reply.

Now, when he came up, he said to her very gently, “Rosy, dear, Mrs. Casaubon is come to see you again; you would like to see her, would you not?” That she colored and gave rather a startled movement did not surprise him after the agitation produced by the interview yesterday—­a beneficent agitation, he thought, since it seemed to have made her turn to him again.

Rosamond dared not say no.  She dared not with a tone of her voice touch the facts of yesterday.  Why had Mrs. Casaubon come again?  The answer was a blank which Rosamond could only fill up with dread, for Will Ladislaw’s lacerating words had made every thought of Dorothea a fresh smart to her.  Nevertheless, in her new humiliating uncertainty she dared do nothing but comply.  She did not say yes, but she rose and let Lydgate put a light shawl over her shoulders, while he said, “I am going