_Theodora._ I think Gwendolen’s confrontation with Klesmer one of the finest things in the book.
_Constantius._ It is like everything in George Eliot; it will bear thinking of.
_Pulcheria._ All that is very fine, but you cannot persuade me that _Deronda_ is not a very ponderous and ill-made story. It has nothing that one can call a subject. A silly young girl and a solemn, sapient young man who doesn’t fall in love with her! That is the _donnée_ of eight monthly volumes. I call it very flat. Is that what the exquisite art of Thackeray and Miss Austen and Hawthorne has come to? I would as soon read a German novel outright.
_Theodora._ There is something higher than form--there is spirit.
_Constantius._ I am afraid Pulcheria is sadly æsthetic. She had better confine herself to Mérimée.
_Pulcheria._ I shall certainly to-day read over _La Double Méprise_.
_Theodora._ Oh, my dear, _y pensez-vous_?
_Constantius._ Yes, I think there is little art in _Deronda_, but I think there is a vast amount of life. In life without art you can find your account; but art without life is a poor affair. The book is full of the world.
_Theodora._ It is full of beauty and knowledge, and that is quite art enough for me.
_Pulcheria_ (to the little dog). We are silenced, darling, but we are not convinced, are we? (The pug begins to bark.) No, we are not even silenced. It’s a young woman with two bandboxes.
_Constantius_ (rising to go). I see what you mean!