ears every day, as
the deep notes of a violoncello to the broken discourse of poultry and
other lazy gentry in the afternoon sunshine. Grandcourt, she inwardly
conjectured, was perhaps right in saying that Deronda thought too much
of himself:--a favorite way of explaining a superiority that
humiliates. However the talk turned on the rinderpest and Jamaica, and
no more was said about roulette. Grandcourt held that the Jamaica negro
was a beastly sort of baptist Caliban; Deronda said he had always felt
a little with Caliban, who naturally had his own point of view and
could sing a good song; Mrs. Davilow observed that her father had an
estate in Barbadoes, but that she herself had never been in the West
Indies; Mrs. Torrington was sure she should never sleep in her bed if
she lived among blacks; her husband corrected her by saying that the
blacks would be manageable enough if it were not for the half-breeds;
and Deronda remarked that the whites had to thank themselves for the
half-breeds.

While this polite pea-shooting was going on, Gwendolen trifled with her
jelly, and looked at every speaker in turn that she might feel at ease
in looking at Deronda.

"I wonder what he thinks of me, really? He must have felt interested in
me, else he would not have sent me my necklace. I wonder what he thinks
of my marriage? What notions has he to make him so grave about things?
Why is he come to Diplow?"

These questions ran in her mind as the voice of an uneasy longing to be
judged by Deronda with unmixed admiration--a longing which had had its
seed in her first resentment at his critical glance. Why did she care
so much about the opinion of this man who was "nothing of any
consequence"? She had no time to find the reason--she was too much
engaged in caring. In the drawing-room, when something had called
Grandcourt away, she went quite unpremeditatedly up to Deronda, who was
standing at a table apart, turning over some prints, and said to him--

"Shall you hunt to-morrow, Mr. Deronda?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"You don't object to hunting, then?"

"I find excuses for it. It is a sin I am inclined to--when I can't get
boating or cricketing."

"Do you object to my hunting?" said Gwendolen, with a saucy movement of
the chin.

"I have no right to object to anything you choose to do."

"You thought you had a right to object to my gambling," persisted
Gwendolen.

"I was sorry for it. I am not aware that I told you of my objecti