have got rid of that démangeaison," said Sir Hugo, as they were coming out.
"What is a man to do, though?" said Grandcourt. "He must ride. I don't see what else there is to do. And I don't call it riding to sit astride a set of brutes with every deformity under the sun."
This delicate diplomatic way of characterising Sir Hugo's stud did not require direct notice; and the baronet feeling that the conversation had worn rather thin, said to the party generally, "Now we are going to see the cloister—the finest bit of all—in perfect preservation: the monks might have been walking there yesterday."
But Gwendolen had lingered behind to look at the kennelled blood-hounds, perhaps because she felt a little dispirited; and Grandcourt waited for her.
"You had better take my arm," he said, in his low tone of command; and she took it.
"It's a great bore being dragged about in this way, and no cigar," said Grandcourt.
"I thought you would like it."
"Like it?—one eternal chatter. And encouraging those ugly girls—inviting one to meet such monsters. How that fat Deronda can bear looking at her"
