“He has been on the brink of marrying her,” Lush went on. “But I hope it’s off now. She’s a niece of the clergyman—Gascoigne—at Pennicote. Her mother is a widow with a brood of daughters. This girl will have nothing, and is as dangerous as gunpowder. It would be a foolish marriage. But she has taken a freak against him, for she ran off here without notice, when he had agreed to call the next day. The fact is, he’s here after her; but he was in no great hurry, and between his caprice and hers they are likely enough not to get together again. But of course he has lost his chance with the heiress.” Grandcourt joining them said, “What a beastly den this is!—a worse hole than Baden. I shall go back to the hotel.” When Sir Hugo and Deronda were alone, the baronet began, “Rather a pretty story. That girl has something in her. She must be worth running after—has _de l’imprévu_. I think her appearance on the scene has bettered my chance of getting Diplow, whether the marriage comes off or not.” “I should hope a marriage like that would not come off,” said Deronda, in a tone of disgust. “What! are you a little touched with the sublime lash?” said Sir Hugo, putting up his glasses to help his short sight in looking at his companion. “Are you inclined to run after her?” “On the contrary,” said Deronda, “I should rather be inclined to run away from her.” “Why, you would easily cut out Grandcourt. A girl with her spirit would think you the finer match of the two,” said Sir Hugo, who often tried Deronda’s patience by finding a joke in impossible advice. (A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections.) “I suppose pedigree and land belong to a fine match,” said Deronda, coldly. “The best horse will win in spite of pedigree, my boy. You remember Napoleon’s _mot—Je suis un ancêtre_” said Sir Hugo, who habitually undervalued birth, as men after dining well often agree that the good of life is distributed with wonderful equality. “I am not sure that I want to be an ancestor,” said Deronda. “It doesn’t seem to me the rarest sort of origination.” “You won’t run after the pretty gambler, then?” said Sir Hugo, putting down his glasses. “Decidedly not.” This answer was perfectly truthful; nevertheless it had passed through Deronda’s mind that under other circumstances he should have given way to the interest this girl had raised in him, and tried to know more of her. But his history had given him a stronger bias in another direction. He felt himself in no sense free. CHAPTER XVI.