ich he hoped might not
be deferred beyond a couple of months, wished to have fuller
consultation as to his resources and affairs generally with Sir Hugo,
and here was a reason for not delaying his visit to Diplow. But he
thought quite as much of another reason--his promise to Gwendolen. The
sense of blessedness in his own lot had yet an aching anxiety at his
heart: this may be held paradoxical, for the beloved lover is always
called happy, and happiness is considered as a well-fleshed
indifference to sorrow outside it. But human experience is usually
paradoxical, if that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk
or even current philosophy. It was no treason to Mirah, but a part of
that full nature which made his love for her the more worthy, that his
joy in her could hold by its side the care for another. For what is
love itself, for the one we love best?--an enfolding of immeasurable
cares which yet are better than any joys outside our love.

Deronda came twice to Diplow, and saw Gwendolen twice--and yet he went
back to town without having told her anything about the change in his
lot and prospects. He blamed himself; but in all momentous
communication likely to give pain we feel dependent on some preparatory
turn of words or associations, some agreement of the other's mood with
the probable effect of what we have to impart. In the first interview
Gwendolen was so absorbed in what she had to say to him, so full of
questions which he must answer, about the arrangement of her life, what
she could do to make herself less ignorant, how she could be kindest to
everybody, and make amends for her selfishness and try to be rid of it,
that Deronda utterly shrank from waiving her immediate wants in order
to speak of himself, nay, from inflicting a wound on her in these
moments when she was leaning on him for help in her path. In the second
interview, when he went with new resolve to command the conversation
into some preparatory track, he found her in a state of deep
depression, overmastered by some distasteful miserable memories which
forced themselves on her as something more real and ample than any new
material out of which she could mould her future. She cried
hysterically, and said that he would always despise her. He could only
seek words of soothing and encouragement: and when she gradually
revived under them, with that pathetic look of renewed childlike
interest which we see in eyes where the lashes are still be