--music, the fine arts, that kind of thing--they should study those
up to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A
woman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old
English tune. That is what I like; though I have heard most
things--been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that
sort. But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideas, you know.
I stick to the good old tunes."

"Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not,"
said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine
art must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing
in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. She smiled and
looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he had always been
asking her to play the "Last Rose of Summer," she would have required
much resignation. "He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick,
and it is covered with books."

"Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very
prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does
not like it, you are all right. But it's a pity you should not have
little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung--that
kind of thing, you know--will not do."

"I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears
teased with measured noises," said Mr. Casaubon. "A tune much iterated
has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort
of minuet to keep time--an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after
boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn
celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to
the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not
immediately concerned."

"No; but music of that sort I should enjoy," said Dorothea. "When we
were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ
at Freiberg, and it made me sob."

"That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear," said Mr. Brooke.
"Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to
take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?"

He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really
thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so
sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam.

"It is wonderful, though," he said to himself as he shuffled out of the
room--"it is wonderful that she