"I see now; it was all persiflage. You don't mean a word of what you say, Meyrick," said Deronda, laying his hand on Meyrick's shoulder, and speaking in a tone of cordial relief. "I was a wiseacre to answer you seriously."
"Upon my honour I do mean it, though," said Hans, facing round and laying his left hand on Deronda's shoulder, so that their eyes fronted each other closely. "I am at the confessional. I meant to tell you as soon as you came. My mother says you are Mirah's guardian, and she thinks herself responsible to you for every breath that falls on Mirah in her house. Well, I love her—I worship her—I won't despair—I mean to deserve her."
"My dear fellow, you can't do it," said Deronda, quickly.
"I should have said, I mean to try."
"You can't keep your resolve, Hans. You used to resolve what you would do for your mother and sisters."
"You have a right to reproach me, old fellow," said Hans, gently.
"Perhaps I am ungenerous," said Deronda, not apologetically, however. "Yet it can't be ungenerous to warn you that you are indulging mad, Quixotic expectations."
