ght; so I am. But you think I shall scream and
plunge and spoil everything. There you are mistaken--excusably, but
transcendently mistaken. I have undergone baptism by immersion. Awe
takes care of me. Ask the little mother."

"You don't reckon a hopeless love among your scrapes, then," said
Deronda, whose voice seemed to get deeper as Hans's went higher.

"I don't mean to call mine hopeless," said Hans, with provoking
coolness, laying down his tools, thrusting his thumbs into his belt,
and moving away a little, as if to contemplate his picture more
deliberately.

"My dear fellow, you are only preparing misery for yourself," said
Deronda, decisively. "She would not marry a Christian, even if she
loved him. Have you heard her--of course you have--heard her speak of
her people and her religion?"

"That can't last," said Hans. "She will see no Jew who is tolerable.
Every male of that race is insupportable,--'insupportably
advancing'--his nose."

"She may rejoin her family. That is what she longs for. Her mother and
brother are probably strict Jews."

"I'll turn proselyte, if she wishes it," said Hans, with a shrug and a
laugh.

"Don't talk nonsense, Hans. I thought you professed a serious love for
her," said Deronda, getting heated.

"So I do. You think it desperate, but I don't."

"I know nothing; I can't tell what has happened. We must be prepared
for surprises. But I can hardly imagine a greater surprise to me than
that there should have seemed to be anything in Mirah's sentiments for
you to found a romantic hope on." Deronda felt that he was too
contemptuous.

"I don't found my romantic hopes on a woman's sentiments," said Hans,
perversely inclined to be the merrier when he was addressed with
gravity. "I go to science and philosophy for my romance. Nature
designed Mirah to fall in love with me. The amalgamation of races
demands it--the mitigation of human ugliness demands it--the affinity
of contrasts assures it. I am the utmost contrast to Mirah--a bleached
Christian, who can't sing two notes in tune. Who has a chance against
me?"

"I see now; it was all _persiflage_. You don't mean a word you say,
Meyrick," said Deronda, laying his hand on Meyrick's shoulder, and
speaking in a tone of cordial relief. "I was a wiseacre to answer you
seriously."

"Upon my honor I do mean it, though," said Hans, facing round and
laying his left hand on Deronda's shoulder, so that their eyes fronted
each other closely. "