 taste as hers for a drawing-room. I
think his opinion is an authority.«
    She meant to sling a small stone at her husband in that way.
    »It's very indecent of Deronda to go about praising that girl,« said
Grandcourt, in a tone of indifference.
    »Indecent!« exclaimed Gwendolen, reddening and looking at him again,
overcome by startled wonder, and unable to reflect on the probable falsity of
the phrase - »to go about praising.«
    »Yes; and especially when she is patronised by Lady Mallinger. He ought to
hold his tongue about her. Men can see what is his relation to her.«
    »Men who judge of others by themselves,« said Gwendolen, turning white after
her redness, and immediately smitten with a dread of her own words.
    »Of course. And a woman should take their judgment - else she is likely to
run her head into the wrong place,« said Grandcourt, conscious of using pincers
on that white creature. »I suppose you take Deronda for a saint.«
    »Oh dear no!« said Gwendolen, summoning desperately her almost miraculous
power of self-control, and speaking in a high hard tone. »Only a little less of
a monster.«
    She rose, pushed her chair away without hurry, and walked out of the room
with something like the care of a man who is afraid of showing that he has taken
more wine than usual. She turned the keys inside her dressing-room doors, and
sat down for some time looking as pale and quiet as when she was leaving the
breakfast-room. Even in the moments after reading the poisonous letter she had
hardly had more cruel sensations than now; for emotion was at the acute point,
where it is not distinguishable from sensation. Deronda unlike what she had
believed him to be, was an image which affected her as a hideous apparition
would have done, quite apart from the way in which it was produced. It had taken
hold of her as pain before she could consider whether it were fiction or truth;
and further to hinder her power of resistance came the sudden perception, how
very slight were the grounds of her faith in Deronda - how little she knew of
his life - how childish she had been in her confidence. His rebukes and his
severity to her began to seem odious, along with all the poetry and lofty
doctrine in the world, whatever it might be; and the grave beauty of his face
seemed the most unpleasant mask that the common habits of men could put on.
    All this went
