“—­I—­should not make any fuss about it.  If she likes to be poor, that is her affair.  Nobody would have said anything if she had married the young fellow because he was rich.  Plenty of beneficed clergy are poorer than they will be.  Here is Elinor,” continued the provoking husband; “she vexed her friends by me:  I had hardly a thousand a-year—­I was a lout—­nobody could see anything in me—­ my shoes were not the right cut—­all the men wondered how a woman could like me.  Upon my word, I must take Ladislaw’s part until I hear more harm of him.”

“Humphrey, that is all sophistry, and you know it,” said his wife.  “Everything is all one—­that is the beginning and end with you.  As if you had not been a Cadwallader!  Does any one suppose that I would have taken such a monster as you by any other name?”

“And a clergyman too,” observed Lady Chettam with approbation.  “Elinor cannot be said to have descended below her rank.  It is difficult to say what Mr. Ladislaw is, eh, James?”

Sir James gave a small grunt, which was less respectful than his usual mode of answering his mother.  Celia looked up at him like a thoughtful kitten.

“It must be admitted that his blood is a frightful mixture!” said Mrs. Cadwallader.  “The Casaubon cuttle-fish fluid to begin with, and then a rebellious Polish fiddler or dancing-master, was it?—­ and then an old clo—­”

“Nonsense, Elinor,” said the Rector, rising.  “It is time for us to go.”

“After all, he is a pretty sprig,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, rising too, and wishing to make amends.  “He is like the fine old Crichley portraits before the idiots came in.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Brooke, starting up with alacrity.  “You must all come and dine with me to-morrow, you know—­eh, Celia, my dear?”

“You will, James—­won’t you?” said Celia, taking her husband’s hand.

“Oh, of course, if you like,” said Sir James, pulling down his waistcoat, but unable yet to adjust his face good-humoredly.  “That is to say, if it is not to meet anybody else.’: 

“No, no, no,” said Mr. Brooke, understanding the condition.  “Dorothea would not come, you know, unless you had been to see her.”

When Sir James and Celia were alone, she said, “Do you mind about my having the carriage to go to, Lowick, James?”

“What, now, directly?” he answered, with some surprise.

“Yes, it is very important,” said Celia.

“Remember, Celia, I cannot see her,” said Sir James.

“Not if she gave up marrying?”

“What is the use of saying that?—­however, I’m going to the stables.  I’ll tell Briggs to bring the carriage round.”

Celia thought it was of great use, if not to say that, at least to take a journey to Lowick in order to influence Dorothea’s mind.  All through their girlhood she had felt that she could act on her sister by a word judiciously placed—­by opening a little window for the daylight of her own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps by which Dodo habitually saw.  And Celia the matron naturally felt more able to advise her childless sister.  How could any one understand Dodo so well as Celia did or love her so tenderly?