I said twelve years," Hans broke in. "Anywhere about twelve years is
the time at which lost relations should keep out of the way."

"Well, but it's nice finding people--there is something to tell," said
Mab, clasping her knees. "Did Prince Camaralzaman find him?"

Then Mrs. Meyrick, in her neat, narrative way, told all she knew
without interruption. "Mr. Deronda has the highest admiration for him,"
she ended--"seems quite to look up to him. And he says Mirah is just
the sister to understand this brother."

"Deronda is getting perfectly preposterous about those Jews," said Hans
with disgust, rising and setting his chair away with a bang. "He wants
to do everything he can to encourage Mirah in her prejudices."

"Oh, for shame, Hans!--to speak in that way of Mr. Deronda," said Mab.
And Mrs. Meyrick's face showed something like an under-current of
expression not allowed to get to the surface.

"And now we shall never be all together," Hans went on, walking about
with his hands thrust into the pockets of his brown velveteen coat,
"but we must have this prophet Elijah to tea with us, and Mirah will
think of nothing but sitting on the ruins of Jerusalem. She will be
spoiled as an artist--mind that--she will get as narrow as a nun.
Everything will be spoiled--our home and everything. I shall take to
drinking."

"Oh, really, Hans," said Kate, impatiently. "I do think men are the
most contemptible animals in all creation. Every one of them must have
everything to his mind, else he is unbearable."

"Oh, oh, oh, it's very dreadful!" cried Mab. "I feel as if ancient
Nineveh were come again."

"I should like to know what is the good of having gone to the
university and knowing everything, if you are so childish, Hans," said
Amy. "You ought to put up with a man that Providence sends you to be
kind to. _We_ shall have to put up with him."

"I hope you will all of you like the new Lamentations of Jeremiah--'to
be continued in our next'--that's all," said Hans, seizing his
wide-awake. "It's no use being one thing more than another if one has
to endure the company of those men with a fixed idea, staring blankly
at you, and requiring all your remarks to be small foot-notes to their
text. If you're to be under a petrifying wall, you'd better be an old
boot. I don't feel myself an old boot." Then abruptly, "Good night,
little mother," bending to kiss her brow in a hasty, desperate manner,
and condescendingly, on his way to the door