Daniel Deronda. Джордж Элиот

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      The Nereid in sea-green robes and silver ornaments, with a pale sea-green feather fastened in silver falling backward over her green hat and light brown hair, was Gwendolen Harleth. She was under the wing, or rather soared by the shoulder, of the lady who had sat by her at the roulette-table; and with them was a gentleman with a white mustache and clipped hair: solid-browed, stiff and German. They were walking about or standing to chat with acquaintances, and Gwendolen was much observed by the seated groups.

      “A striking girl—that Miss Harleth—unlike others.”

      “Yes, she has got herself up as a sort of serpent now—all green and silver, and winds her neck about a little more than usual.”

      “Oh, she must always be doing something extraordinary. She is that kind of girl, I fancy. Do you think her pretty, Mr. Vandernoodt?”

      “Very. A man might risk hanging for her—I mean a fool might.”

      “You like a nez retroussé, then, and long narrow eyes?”

      “When they go with such an ensemble.”

      “The ensemble du serpent?”

      “If you will. Woman was tempted by a serpent; why not man?”

      “She is certainly very graceful; but she wants a tinge of color in her cheeks. It is a sort of Lamia beauty she has.”

      “On the contrary, I think her complexion one of her chief charms. It is a warm paleness; it looks thoroughly healthy. And that delicate nose with its gradual little upward curve is distracting. And then her mouth—there never was a prettier mouth, the lips curled backward so finely, eh, Mackworth?”

      “Think so? I cannot endure that sort of mouth. It looks so self-complacent, as if it knew its own beauty—the curves are too immovable. I like a mouth that trembles more.”

      “For my part, I think her odious,” said a dowager. “It is wonderful what unpleasant girls get into vogue. Who are these Langens? Does anybody know them?”

      “They are quite comme il faut. I have dined with them several times at the Russie. The baroness is English. Miss Harleth calls her cousin. The girl herself is thoroughly well-bred, and as clever as possible.”

      “Dear me! and the baron?”.

      “A very good furniture picture.”

      “Your baroness is always at the roulette-table,” said Mackworth. “I fancy she has taught the girl to gamble.”

      “Oh, the old woman plays a very sober game; drops a ten-franc piece here and there. The girl is more headlong. But it is only a freak.”

      “I hear she has lost all her winnings to-day. Are they rich? Who knows?”

      “Ah, who knows? Who knows that about anybody?” said Mr. Vandernoodt, moving off to join the Langens.

      The remark that Gwendolen wound her neck about more than usual this evening was true. But it was not that she might carry out the serpent idea more completely: it was that she watched for any chance of seeing Deronda, so that she might inquire about this stranger, under whose measuring gaze she was still wincing. At last her opportunity came.

      “Mr. Vandernoodt, you know everybody,” said Gwendolen, not too eagerly, rather with a certain languor of utterance which she sometimes gave to her clear soprano. “Who is that near the door?”

      “There are half a dozen near the door. Do you mean that old Adonis in the George the Fourth wig?”

      “No, no; the dark-haired young man on the right with the dreadful expression.”

      “Dreadful, do you call it? I think he is an uncommonly fine fellow.”

      “But who is he?”

      “He is lately come to our hotel with Sir Hugo Mallinger.”

      “Sir Hugo Mallinger?”

      “Yes. Do you know him?”

      “No.” (Gwendolen colored slightly.) “He has a place near us, but he never comes to it. What did you say was the name of that gentleman near the door?”

      “Deronda—Mr. Deronda.”

      “What a delightful name! Is he an Englishman?”

      “Yes. He is reported to be rather closely related to the baronet. You are interested in him?”

      “Yes. I think he is not like young men in general.”

      “And you don’t admire young men in general?”

      “Not in the least. I always know what they will say. I can’t at all guess what this Mr. Deronda would say. What does he say?”

      “Nothing, chiefly. I sat with his party for a good hour last night on the terrace, and he never spoke—and was not smoking either. He looked bored.”

      “Another reason why I should like to know him. I am always bored.”

      “I should think he would be charmed to have an introduction. Shall I bring it about? Will you allow it, baroness?”

      “Why not?—since he is related to Sir Hugo Mallinger. It is a new rôle of yours, Gwendolen, to be always bored,” continued Madame von Langen, when Mr. Vandernoodt had moved away. “Until now you have always seemed eager about something from morning till night.”

      “That is just because I am bored to death. If I am to leave off play I must break my arm or my collar-bone. I must make something happen; unless you will go into Switzerland and take me up the Matterhorn.”

      “Perhaps this Mr. Deronda’s acquaintance will do instead of the Matterhorn.”

      “Perhaps.”

      But Gwendolen did not make Deronda’s acquaintance on this occasion. Mr. Vandernoodt did not succeed in bringing him up to her that evening, and when she re-entered her own room she found a letter recalling her home.

CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

      This man contrives a secret ’twixt us two,

       That he may quell me with his meeting eyes

       Like one who quells a lioness at bay.

      This was the letter Gwendolen found on her table:,

      DEAREST CHILD.—I have been expecting to hear from you for a week. In

       your last you said the Langens thought of leaving Leubronn and going

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