There was something horrible to Dorothea in the sensation which this
unresponsive hardness inflicted on her. That is a strong word, but not
too strong: it is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of
joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard
faces at the devastation their own waste has made, and say, the earth
bears no harvest of sweetness--calling their denial knowledge. You may
ask why, in the name of manliness, Mr. Casaubon should have behaved in
that way. Consider that his was a mind which shrank from pity: have
you ever watched in such a mind the effect of a suspicion that what is
pressing it as a grief may be really a source of contentment, either
actual or future, to the being who already offends by pitying?
Besides, he knew little of Dorothea's sensations, and had not reflected
that on such an occasion as the present they were comparable in
strength to his own sensibilities about Carp's criticisms.

Dorothea did not withdraw her arm, but she could not venture to speak.
Mr. Casaubon did not say, "I wish to be alone," but he directed his
steps in silence towards the house, and as they entered by the glass
door on this eastern side, Dorothea withdrew her arm and lingered on
the matting, that she might leave her husband quite free. He entered
the library and shut himself in, alone with his sorrow.

She went up to her boudoir. The open bow-window let in the serene
glory of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast
long shadows. But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threw
herself on a chair, not heeding that she was in the dazzling sun-rays:
if there were discomfort in that, how could she tell that it was not
part of her inward misery?

She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had
felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words:--

"What have I done--what am I--that he should treat me so? He never
knows what is in my mind--he never cares. What is the use of anything
I do? He wishes he had never married me."

She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness. Like one
who has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance all
the paths of her young hope which she should never find again. And
just as clearly in the miserable light she saw her own and her
husband's solitude--how they walked apart so that she was obliged to
survey him. If he had drawn her towards him, she would neve