“You wanted what was impossible, you know, Chettam,” said Mr. Brooke.  “You wanted him shipped off.  I told you Ladislaw was not to be done as we liked with:  he had his ideas.  He was a remarkable fellow—­ I always said he was a remarkable fellow.”

“Yes,” said Sir James, unable to repress a retort, “it is rather a pity you formed that high opinion of him.  We are indebted to that for his being lodged in this neighborhood.  We are indebted to that for seeing a woman like Dorothea degrading herself by marrying him.”  Sir James made little stoppages between his clauses, the words not coming easily.  “A man so marked out by her husband’s will, that delicacy ought to have forbidden her from seeing him again—­ who takes her out of her proper rank—­into poverty—­has the meanness to accept such a sacrifice—­has always had an objectionable position—­ a bad origin—­and, I believe, is a man of little principle and light character.  That is my opinion.”  Sir James ended emphatically, turning aside and crossing his leg.

“I pointed everything out to her,” said Mr. Brooke, apologetically—­ “I mean the poverty, and abandoning her position.  I said, `My dear, you don’t know what it is to live on seven hundred a-year, and have no carriage, and that kind of thing, and go amongst people who don’t know who you are.’  I put it strongly to her.  But I advise you to talk to Dorothea herself.  The fact is, she has a dislike to Casaubon’s property.  You will hear what she says, you know.”

“No—­excuse me—­I shall not,” said Sir James, with more coolness.  “I cannot bear to see her again; it is too painful.  It hurts me too much that a woman like Dorothea should have done what is wrong.”

“Be just, Chettam,” said the easy, large-lipped Rector, who objected to all this unnecessary discomfort.  “Mrs. Casaubon may be acting imprudently:  she is giving up a fortune for the sake of a man, and we men have so poor an opinion of each other that we can hardly call a woman wise who does that.  But I think you should not condemn it as a wrong action, in the strict sense of the word.”

“Yes, I do,” answered Sir James.  “I think that Dorothea commits a wrong action in marrying Ladislaw.”

“My dear fellow, we are rather apt to consider an act wrong because it is unpleasant to us,” said the Rector, quietly.  Like many men who take life easily, he had the knack of saying a home truth occasionally to those who felt themselves virtuously out of temper.  Sir James took out his handkerchief and began to bite the corner.

“It is very dreadful of Dodo, though,” said Celia, wishing to justify her husband.  “She said she never would marry again—­ not anybody at all.”

“I heard her say the same thing myself,” said Lady Chettam, majestically, as if this were royal evidence.