carried off his Salomon Maimon's
Lebensgeschichte with a mere »good morning.«
    He felt some vexation at the sudden arrest of the interview, and the
apparent prohibition that he should know more of this man, who was certainly
something out of the common way - as different probably as a Jew could well be
from Ezra Cohen, through whose door Deronda was presently entering, and whose
flourishing face glistening on the way to fatness was hanging over the counter
in negotiation with some one on the other side of the partition, concerning two
plated stoppers and three teaspoons, which lay spread before him. Seeing Deronda
enter, he called out »Mother! Mother!« and then with a familiar nod and smile,
said, »Coming, sir - coming directly.«
    Deronda could not help looking towards the door from the back with some
anxiety, which was not soothed when he saw a vigorous woman beyond fifty enter
and approach to serve him. Not that there was anything very repulsive about her:
the worst that could be said was that she had that look of having made her
toilet with little water, and by twilight, which is common to unyouthful people
of her class, and of having presumably slept in her large earrings, if not in
her rings and necklace. In fact, what caused a sinking of heart in Deronda was,
her not being so coarse and ugly as to exclude the idea of her being Mirah's
mother. Any one who has looked at a face to try and discern signs of known
kinship in it will understand his process of conjecture - how he tried to think
away the fat which had gradually disguised the outlines of youth, and to discern
what one may call the elementary expressions of the face. He was sorry to see no
absolute negative to his fears. Just as it was conceivable that this Ezra,
brought up to trade, might resemble the scapegrace father in everything but his
knowledge and talent, so it was not impossible that this mother might have had a
lovely refined daughter whose type of feature and expression was like Mirah's.
The eyebrows had a vexatious similarity of line; and who shall decide how far a
face may be masked when the uncherishing years have thrust it far onward in the
ever-new procession of youth and age? The good-humour of the glance remained and
shone out in a motherly way at Deronda, as she said, in a mild guttural tone -
    »How can I serve you, sir?«
    »I should like to look at the silver clasps in the window,« said Deronda;
»the larger ones,