on,"
said Deronda, with his usual directness of gaze--a large-eyed gravity,
innocent of any intention. His eyes had a peculiarity which has drawn
many men into trouble; they were of a dark yet mild intensity which
seemed to express a special interest in every one on whom he fixed
them, and might easily help to bring on him those claims which ardently
sympathetic people are often creating in the minds of those who need
help. In mendicant fashion we make the goodness of others a reason for
exorbitant demands on them. That sort of effect was penetrating
Gwendolen.

"You hindered me from gambling again," she answered. But she had no
sooner spoken than she blushed over face and neck; and Deronda blushed,
too, conscious that in the little affair of the necklace he had taken a
questionable freedom.

It was impossible to speak further; and she turned away to a window,
feeling that she had stupidly said what she had not meant to say, and
yet being rather happy that she had plunged into this mutual
understanding. Deronda also did not like it. Gwendolen seemed more
decidedly attractive than before; and certainly there had been changes
going on within her since that time at Leubronn: the struggle of mind
attending a conscious error had wakened something like a new soul,
which had better, but also worse, possibilities than her former poise
of crude self-confidence: among the forces she had come to dread was
something within her that troubled satisfaction.

That evening Mrs. Davilow said, "Was it really so, or only a joke of
yours, about Mr. Deronda's spoiling your play, Gwen?"

Her curiosity had been excited, and she could venture to ask a question
that did not concern Mr. Grandcourt.

"Oh, it merely happened that he was looking on when I began to lose,"
said Gwendolen, carelessly. "I noticed him."

"I don't wonder at that: he is a striking young man. He puts me in mind
of Italian paintings. One would guess, without being told, that there
was foreign blood in his veins."

"Is there?" said Gwendolen.

"Mrs. Torrington says so. I asked particularly who he was, and she told
me that his mother was some foreigner of high rank."

"His mother?" said Gwendolen, rather sharply. "Then who was his father?"

"Well--every one says he is the son of Sir Hugo Mallinger, who brought
him up; though he passes for a ward. She says, if Sir Hugo Mallinger
could have done as he liked with his estates, he would have left them
to this Mr. Deron