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 announced him, you know. And we'll go down and look
at the picture. There you are to the life: a deep subtle sort of
thinker with his fore-finger on the page, while Saint Bonaventure or
somebody else, rather fat and florid, is looking up at the Trinity.
Everything is symbolical, you know--the higher style of art: I like
that up to a certain point, but not too far--it's rather straining to
keep up with, you know. But you are at home in that, Casaubon. And
your painter's flesh is good--solidity, transparency, everything of
that sort. I went into that a great deal at one time. However, I'll
go and fetch Ladislaw."