thea could discern the changes in her husband's face before he observed with more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—
"You are exceedingly hospitable, my dear sir; and I owe you acknowledgments for exercising your hospitality towards a relative of mine."
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 miniature of Mr Casaubon's aunt that hangs 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 him an opportunity. He would make a good 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 come in till I had an-
