medicines, shouldn’t you?—or a dry hot-air bath. Many things might be
tried, of a drying nature.”

“Let her try a certain person’s pamphlets,” said Mrs. Cadwallader in an
undertone, seeing the gentlemen enter. “He does not want drying.”

“Who, my dear?” said Lady Chettam, a charming woman, not so quick as to
nullify the pleasure of explanation.

“The bridegroom—Casaubon. He has certainly been drying up faster since
the engagement: the flame of passion, I suppose.”

“I should think he is far from having a good constitution,” said Lady
Chettam, with a still deeper undertone. “And then his studies—so very
dry, as you say.”

“Really, by the side of Sir James, he looks like a death’s head skinned
over for the occasion. Mark my words: in a year from this time that
girl will hate him. She looks up to him as an oracle now, and by-and-by
she will be at the other extreme. All flightiness!”

“How very shocking! I fear she is headstrong. But tell me—you know all
about him—is there anything very bad? What is the truth?”

“The truth? he is as bad as the wrong physic—nasty to take, and sure to
disagree.”

“There could not be anything worse than that,” said Lady Chettam, with
so vivid a conception of the physic that she seemed to have learned
something exact about Mr. Casaubon’s disadvantages. “However, James
will hear nothing against Miss Brooke. He says she is the mirror of
women still.”

“That is a generous make-believe of his. Depend upon it, he likes
little Celia better, and she appreciates him. I hope you like my little
Celia?”

“Certainly; she is fonder of geraniums, and seems more docile, though
not so fine a figure. But we were talking of physic. Tell me about this
new young surgeon, Mr. Lydgate. I am told he is wonderfully clever: he

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