She must say it—she could contrive no other sentence—
"Mr Deronda is in the next room."
"Yes," said Mirah, in her former tone. "He is reading Hebrew with my brother."
"You have a brother?" said Gwendolen, who had heard this from Lady Mallinger, but had not minded it then.
"Yes, a dear brother who is ill—consumptive, and Mr Deronda is the best of friends to him, as he has been to me," said Mirah, with the impulse that will not let us pass the mention of a precious person indifferently.
"Tell me," said Gwendolen, putting her hand on Mirah's, and speaking hardly above a whisper—"tell me—tell me the truth. You are sure he is quite good. You know no evil of him. Any evil that people say of him is false."
Could the proud-spirited woman have behaved more like a child? But the strange words penetrated Mirah with nothing but a sense of solemnity and indignation. With a sudden light in her eyes and a tremor in her voice, she said—
"Who are the people that say evil of him? I would not believe any evil of him, if an angel came to tell it me. He found me when I was so miserable—I was going to drown myself—I looked
