Deronda has not
heard her."

"Would it be disagreeable to you to sing now?" said Deronda, with a
more deferential gentleness than he had ever been conscious of before.

"Oh, I shall like it," said Mirah. "My voice has come back a little
with rest."

Perhaps her ease of manner was due to something more than the
simplicity of her nature. The circumstances of her life made her think
of everything she did as work demanded from her, in which affectation
had nothing to do; and she had begun her work before self-consciousness
was born.

She immediately rose and went to the piano--a somewhat worn instrument
that seemed to get the better of its infirmities under the firm touch
of her small fingers as she preluded. Deronda placed himself where he
could see her while she sang; and she took everything as quietly as if
she had been a child going to breakfast.

Imagine her--it is always good to imagine a human creature in whom
bodily loveliness seems as properly one with the entire being as the
bodily loveliness of those wondrous transparent orbs of life that we
find in the sea--imagine her with her dark hair brushed from her
temples, but yet showing certain tiny rings there which had cunningly
found their own way back, the mass of it hanging behind just to the
nape of the little neck in curly fibres, such as renew themselves at
their own will after being bathed into straightness like that of
water-grasses. Then see the perfect cameo her profile makes, cut in a
duskish shell, where by some happy fortune there pierced a gem-like
darkness for the eye and eyebrow; the delicate nostrils defined enough
to be ready for sensitive movements, the finished ear, the firm curves
of the chin and neck, entering into the expression of a refinement
which was not feebleness.

She sang Beethoven's "Per pieta non dirmi addio" with a subdued but
searching pathos which had that essential of perfect singing, the
making one oblivious of art or manner, and only possessing one with the
song. It was the sort of voice that gives the impression of being meant
like a bird's wooing for an audience near and beloved. Deronda began by
looking at her, but felt himself presently covering his eyes with his
hand, wanting to seclude the melody in darkness; then he refrained from
what might seem oddity, and was ready to meet the look of mute appeal
which she turned toward him at the end.

"I think I never enjoyed a song more than that," he said, gratefully.

"Y