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-humouredly. "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,
