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The funeral was ended now, and the churchyard was being cleared

"Now you can see him, Mrs Cadwallader," said Celia "He is just like

a s in Dorothea's

boudoir--quite nice-looking"

"A very pretty sprig," said Mrs Cadwallader, dryly "What is your

nephew to be, Mr Casaubon?"

"Pardon me, he is not my nephew He is my cousin"

"Well, you know," interposed Mr Brooke, "he is trying his wings He

is just the sort of young fellow to rise I should be glad to give hiood secretary, now, like Hobbes,

Milton, Swift--that sort of man"

"I understand," said Mrs Cadwallader "One who can write speeches"

"I'll fetch him in now, eh, Casaubon?" said Mr Brooke "He wouldn't

coo down and look

at the picture There you are to the life: a deep subtle sort of

thinker with his fore-finger on the page, while Saint Bonaventure or

so up at the Trinity

Everything is syher style of art: I like

that up to a certain point, but not too far--it's rather straining to

keep up with, you know But you are at hoood--solidity, transparency, everything of

that sort I went into that a great deal at one tio and fetch Ladislaw"