Gwendolen felt herself stricken. She was conscious of having received so much, that her sense of command was checked, and sank away in the perception that, look around her as she might, she could not turn back: it was as if she had consented to mount a chariot where another held the reins; and it was not in her nature to leap out in the eyes of the world. She had not consented in ignorance, and all she could say now would be a confession that she had not been ignorant. Her right to explanation was gone. All she had to do now was to adjust herself, so that the spikes of that unwilling penance which conscience imposed should not gall her. With a sort of mental shiver, she resolutely changed her mental attitude. There had been a little pause, during which she had not turned away her eyes; and with a sudden break into a smile, she said, “If I were as kind to you as you are to me, that would spoil your generosity: it would no longer be as great as it could be—and it is that now.” “Then I am not to ask for one kiss,” said Grandcourt, contented to pay a large price for this new kind of love-making, which introduced marriage by the finest contrast. “Not one?” said Gwendolen, getting saucy, and nodding at him defiantly. He lifted her little left hand to his lips, and then released it respectfully. Clearly it was faint praise to say of him that he was not disgusting: he was almost charming; and she felt at this moment that it was not likely she could ever have loved another man better than this one. His reticence gave her some inexplicable, delightful consciousness. “Apropos,” she said, taking up her work again, “is there any one besides Captain and Mrs. Torrington at Diplow?—or do you leave them _tête-à-tête_? I suppose he converses in cigars, and she answers with her chignon.” “She has a sister with her,” said Grandcourt, with his shadow of a smile, “and there are two men besides—one of them you know, I believe.” “Ah, then, I have a poor opinion of him,” said Gwendolen, shaking her head. “You saw him at Leubronn—young Deronda—a young fellow with the Mallingers.” Gwendolen felt as if her heart were making a sudden gambol, and her fingers, which tried to keep a firm hold on her work, got cold. “I never spoke to him,” she said, dreading any discernible change in herself. “Is he not disagreeable?” “No, not particularly,” said Grandcourt, in his most languid way. “He thinks a little too much of himself. I thought he had been introduced to you.” “No. Some one told me his name the evening before I came away. That was all. What is he?” “A sort of ward of Sir Hugo Mallinger’s. Nothing of any consequence.” “Oh, poor creature! How very unpleasant for him!” said Gwendolen, speaking from the lip, and not meaning any sarcasm. “I wonder if it has left off raining!” she added, rising and going to look out of the window.