“People who are lost for twelve years should never come back again,” said Hans. “They are always in the way.”
“Hans!” said Mrs. Meyrick, reproachfully. “If you had lost me for twenty years, I should have thought—”
“I said twelve years,” Hans broke in. “Anywhere about twelve years is the time at which lost relations should keep out of the way.”
“Well, but it’s nice finding people—there is something to tell,” said Mab, clasping her knees. “Did Prince Camaralzaman find him?”
Then Mrs. Meyrick, in her neat, narrative way, told all she knew without interruption. “Mr. Deronda has the highest admiration for him,” she ended—“seems quite to look up to him. And he says Mirah is just the sister to understand this brother.”
“Deronda is getting perfectly preposterous about those Jews,” said Hans with disgust, rising and setting his chair away with a bang. “He wants to do everything he can to encourage Mirah in her prejudices.”
“Oh, for shame, Hans!—to speak in that way of Mr. Deronda,” said Mab. And Mrs. Meyrick’s face showed something like an under-current of expression not allowed to get to the surface.
“And now we shall never be all together,” Hans went on, walking about with his hands thrust into the pockets of his brown velveteen coat, “but we must have this prophet Elijah to tea with us, and Mirah will think of nothing but sitting on the ruins of Jerusalem. She will be spoiled as an artist—mind that—she will get as narrow as a nun. Everything will be spoiled—our home and everything. I shall take to drinking.”
“Oh, really, Hans,” said Kate, impatiently. “I do think men are the most contemptible animals in all creation. Every one of them must have everything to his mind, else he is unbearable.”
“Oh, oh, oh, it’s very dreadful!” cried Mab. “I feel as if ancient Nineveh were come again.”