"But there are very valuable books about antiquities which were written
a long while ago by scholars who knew nothing about these modern
things; and they are still used. Why should Mr. Casaubon's not be
valuable, like theirs?" said Dorothea, with more remonstrant energy.
She was impelled to have the argument aloud, which she had been having
in her own mind.

"That depends on the line of study taken," said Will, also getting a
tone of rejoinder. "The subject Mr. Casaubon has chosen is as changing
as chemistry: new discoveries are constantly making new points of view.
Who wants a system on the basis of the four elements, or a book to
refute Paracelsus? Do you not see that it is no use now to be crawling
a little way after men of the last century--men like Bryant--and
correcting their mistakes?--living in a lumber-room and furbishing up
broken-legged theories about Chus and Mizraim?"

"How can you bear to speak so lightly?" said Dorothea, with a look
between sorrow and anger. "If it were as you say, what could be sadder
than so much ardent labor all in vain? I wonder it does not affect you
more painfully, if you really think that a man like Mr. Casaubon, of so
much goodness, power, and learning, should in any way fail in what has
been the labor of his best years." She was beginning to be shocked that
she had got to such a point of supposition, and indignant with Will for
having led her to it.

"You questioned me about the matter of fact, not of feeling," said
Will. "But if you wish to punish me for the fact, I submit. I am not
in a position to express my feeling toward Mr. Casaubon: it would be at
best a pensioner's eulogy."

"Pray excuse me," said Dorothea, coloring deeply. "I am aware, as you
say, that I am in fault in having introduced the subject. Indeed, I am
wrong altogether. Failure after long perseverance is much grander than
never to have a striving good enough to be called a failure."

"I quite agree with you," said Will, determined to change the
situation--"so much so that I have made up my mind not to run that
risk of never attaining a failure. Mr. Casaubon's generosity has
perhaps been dangerous to me, and I mean to renounce the liberty it has
given me. I mean to go back to England shortly and work my own
way--depend on nobody else than myself."

"That is fine--I respect that feeling," said Dorothea, with returning
kindness. "But Mr. Casaubon, I am sure, has never thought of anything
in