sh so perfectly."

She did not answer immediately, but looked at Deronda again, straining
to see him in the double light. Until now she had been watching the
oar. It seemed as if she were half roused, and wondered which part of
her impression was dreaming and which waking. Sorrowful isolation had
benumbed her sense of reality, and the power of distinguishing outward
and inward was continually slipping away from her. Her look was full of
wondering timidity such as the forsaken one in the desert might have
lifted to the angelic vision before she knew whether his message was in
anger or in pity.

"You want to know if I am English?" she said at last, while Deronda was
reddening nervously under a gaze which he felt more fully than he saw.

"I want to know nothing except what you like to tell me," he said,
still uneasy in the fear that her mind was wandering. "Perhaps it is
not good for you to talk."

"Yes, I will tell you. I am English-born. But I am a Jewess."

Deronda was silent, inwardly wondering that he had not said this to
himself before, though any one who had seen delicate-faced Spanish
girls might simply have guessed her to be Spanish.

"Do you despise me for it?" she said presently in low tones, which had
a sadness that pierced like a cry from a small dumb creature in fear.

"Why should I?" said Deronda. "I am not so foolish."

"I know many Jews are bad."

"So are many Christians. But I should not think it fair for you to
despise me because of that."

"My mother and brother were good. But I shall never find them. I am
come a long way--from abroad. I ran away; but I cannot tell you--I
cannot speak of it. I thought I might find my mother again--God would
guide me. But then I despaired. This morning when the light came, I
felt as if one word kept sounding within me--Never! never! But now--I
begin--to think--" her words were broken by rising sobs--"I am
commanded to live--perhaps we are going to her."

With an outburst of weeping she buried her head on her knees. He hoped
that this passionate weeping might relieve her excitement. Meanwhile he
was inwardly picturing in much embarrassment how he should present
himself with her in Park Lane--the course which he had at first
unreflectingly determined on. No one kinder and more gentle than Lady
Mallinger; but it was hardly probable that she would be at home; and he
had a shuddering sense of a lackey staring at this delicate, sorrowful
image of womanhood--of gla