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 dislike 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.
