id Gwendolen. "What
was it?"

"It is impossible to explain such things," said Deronda. "One can never
communicate niceties of feeling about words and manner."

"You think I am shut out from understanding them," said Gwendolen, with
a slight tremor in her voice, which she was trying to conquer. "Have I
shown myself so very dense to everything you have said?" There was an
indescribable look of suppressed tears in her eyes, which were turned
on him.

"Not at all," said Deronda, with some softening of voice. "But
experience differs for different people. We don't all wince at the same
things. I have had plenty of proof that you are not dense." He smiled
at her.

"But one may feel things and are not able to do anything better for all
that," said Gwendolen, not smiling in return--the distance to which
Deronda's words seemed to throw her chilling her too much. "I begin to
think we can only get better by having people about us who raise good
feelings. You must not be surprised at anything in me. I think it is
too late for me to alter. I don't know how to set about being wise, as
you told me to be."

"I seldom find I do any good by my preaching. I might as well have kept
from meddling," said Deronda, thinking rather sadly that his
interference about that unfortunate necklace might end in nothing but
an added pain to him in seeing her after all hardened to another sort
of gambling than roulette.

"Don't say that," said Gwendolen, hurriedly, feeling that this might be
her only chance of getting the words uttered, and dreading the increase
of her own agitation. "If you despair of me, I shall despair. Your
saying that I should not go on being selfish and ignorant has been some
strength to me. If you say you wish you had not meddled--that means you
despair of me and forsake me. And then you will decide for me that I
shall not be good. It is you who will decide; because you might have
made me different by keeping as near to me as you could, and believing
in me."

She had not been looking at him as she spoke, but at the handle of the
fan which she held closed. With the last words she rose and left him,
returning to her former place, which had been left vacant; while every
one was settling into quietude in expectation of Mirah's voice, which
presently, with that wonderful, searching quality of subdued song in
which the melody seems simply an effect of the emotion, gave forth,
_Per pieta non dirmi addio_.

In Deronda's ear the