"These seem to be all Cambridge heads and bits of country. Perhaps I had better begin at the other end."
"No; you'll find her about the middle. I emptied one folio into another."
"Is this one of your undergraduates?" said Deronda, holding up a drawing. "It's an unusually agreeable face."
"That? Oh, that's a man named Gascoigne—Rex Gascoigne. An uncommonly good fellow; his upper lip, too, is good. I coached him before he got his scholarship. He ought to have taken honours last Easter. But he was ill, and has had to stay up another year. I must look him up. I want to know how he's going on."
"Here she is, I suppose," said Deronda, holding up the sketch of the Trasteverina.
"Ah," said Hans, looking at it rather contemptuously, "too coarse. I was unregenerate then."
Deronda was silent while he closed the folio, leaving the Trasteverina outside. Then grasping his coat collar, and turning towards Hans, he said, "I daresay my scruples are excessive, Meyrick, but I must ask you to oblige me by giving up this notion."
Hans threw himself into a tragic attitude, and screamed, "What! my series—my immortal Bere-
