one may be like Moses or Mahomet or
somebody of that sort who had to cram, and forgot in one day what it had taken
him forty to learn.«
    Deronda would not admit that he cared about the risk, and he had really been
beguiled into a little indifference by double sympathy: he was very anxious that
Hans should not miss the much-needed scholarship, and he felt a revival of
interest in the old studies. Still, when Hans, rather late in the day, got able
to use his own eyes, Deronda had tenacity enough to try hard and recover his
lost ground. He failed, however; but he had the satisfaction of seeing Meyrick
win.
    Success, as a sort of beginning that urged completion, might have reconciled
Deronda to his university course; but the emptiness of all things, from politics
to pastimes, is never so striking to us as when we fail in them. The loss of the
personal triumph had no severity for him, but the sense of having spent his time
ineffectively in a mode of working which had been against the grain, gave him a
distaste for any renewal of the process, which turned his imagined project of
quitting Cambridge into a serious intention. In speaking of his intention to
Meyrick he made it appear that he was glad of the turn events had taken - glad
to have the balance dip decidedly, and feel freed from his hesitations; but he
observed that he must of course submit to any strong objection on the part of
Sir Hugo.
    Meyrick's joy and gratitude were disturbed by much uneasiness. He believed
in Deronda's alleged preference, but he felt keenly that in serving him Daniel
had placed himself at a disadvantage in Sir Hugo's opinion, and he said
mournfully, »If you had got the scholarship, Sir Hugo would have thought that
you asked to leave us with a better grace. You have spoilt your luck for my
sake, and I can do nothing to mend it.«
    »Yes, you can; you are to be a first-rate fellow. I call that a first-rate
investment of my luck.«
    »Oh, confound it! You save an ugly mongrel from drowning, and expect him to
cut a fine figure. The poets have made tragedies enough about signing one's self
over to wickedness for the sake of getting something plummy; I shall write a
tragedy of a fellow who signed himself over to be good, and was uncomfortable
ever after.«
    But Hans lost no time in secretly writing the history of the affair to Sir
Hugo, making it plain that