her," was the fervid little woman's closing commentary when, tête-à-tête with Deronda in the back parlour that evening, she had conveyed Mirah's story to him with much vividness.
"What is your feeling about a search for this mother?" said Deronda. "Have you no fears? I have, I confess."
"Oh, I believe the mother's good," said Mrs Meyrick, with rapid decisiveness. " Or was good. She may be dead—that's my fear. A good woman, you may depend: you may know it by the scoundrel the father is. Where did the child get her goodness from? Wheaten flour has to be accounted for."
Deronda was rather disappointed at this answer: he had wanted a confirmation of his own judgment, and he began to put in demurrers. The argument about the mother would not apply to the brother; and Mrs Meyrick admitted that the brother might be an ugly likeness of the father. Then, as to advertising, if the name was Cohen, you might as well advertise for two undescribed terriers: and here Mrs Meyrick helped him, for the idea of an advertisement, already mentioned to Mirah, had roused the poor child's terror: she was convinced that her father would see it—he saw everything in the papers. Certainly there
