He knew very well that he was entangling her in helpless humiliation: it was another way of smiling at her ironically, and taking the air of a supercilious mentor.
Gwendolen felt the bitter tears of mortification rising and rolling down her cheeks.

No one had ever before dared to treat her with irony and contempt.

One thing was clear: she must carry out her resolution to quit this place at once; it was impossible for her to reappear in the public _salon_, still less stand at the gaming-table with the risk of seeing Deronda.

Now came an importunate knock at the door: breakfast was ready.

Gwendolen with a passionate movement thrust necklace, cambric, scrap of paper, and all into her _necessaire_, pressed her handkerchief against her face, and after pausing a minute or two to summon back her proud self-control, went to join her friends.