pushed it aside for signature, and threw himself back to consider whether there were anything else for him to do, or whether he could walk out for the chance of meeting the party which included Gwendolen, when he heard her voice saying, “Mr. Deronda.” It was certainly startling. He rose hastily, turned round, and pushed away his chair with a strong expression of surprise. “Am I wrong to come in?” said Gwendolen. “I thought you were far on your walk,” said Deronda. “I turned back,” said Gwendolen. “Do you intend to go out again? I could join you now, if you would allow me.” “No; I want to say something, and I can’t stay long,” said Gwendolen, speaking quickly in a subdued tone, while she walked forward and rested her arms and muff on the back of the chair he had pushed away from him. “I want to tell you that it is really so—I can’t help feeling remorse for having injured others. That was what I meant when I said that I had done worse than gamble again and pawn the necklace again—something more injurious, as you called it. And I can’t alter it. I am punished, but I can’t alter it. You said I could do many things. Tell me again. What should you do—what should you feel if you were in my place?” The hurried directness with which she spoke—the absence of all her little airs, as if she were only concerned to use the time in getting an answer that would guide her, made her appeal unspeakably touching. Deronda said, “I should feel something of what you feel—deep sorrow.” “But what would you try to do?” said Gwendolen, with urgent quickness. “Order my life so as to make any possible amends, and keep away from doing any sort of injury again,” said Deronda, catching her sense that the time for speech was brief. “But I can’t—I can’t; I must go on,” said Gwendolen, in a passionate loud whisper. “I have thrust out others—I have made my gain out of their loss—tried to make it—tried. And I must go on. I can’t alter it.” It was impossible to answer this instantaneously. Her words had confirmed his conjecture, and the situation of all concerned rose in swift images before him. His feeling for those who had been thrust out sanctioned her remorse; he could not try to nullify it, yet his heart was full of pity for her. But as soon as he could he answered—taking up her last words, “That is the bitterest of all—to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing. But if you submitted to that as men submit to maiming or life-long incurable disease?—and made the unalterable wrong a reason for more effort toward a good, that may do something to counterbalance the evil? One who has committed irremediable errors may be scourged by that consciousness into a higher course than is common. There are many examples. Feeling what it is to have spoiled one life may well make us long to save other lives from being spoiled.” “But you have not wronged any one, or spoiled their lives,” said Gwendolen, hastily. “It is only others who have wronged _you_.”