"Ah," said Hans, looking at it rather contemptuously, "too coarse. I was unregenerate then."
Deronda was silent while he closed the folio, leaving the Trasteverina outside. Then clasping his coat-collar, and turning toward Hans, he said, "I dare say my scruples are excessive, Meyrick, but I must ask you to oblige me by giving up this notion."
Hans threw himself into a tragic attitude, and screamed, "What! my series--my immortal Berenice series? Think of what you are saying, man--destroying, as Milton says, not a life but an immortality. Wait before you answer, that I may deposit the implements of my art and be ready to uproot my hair."
Here Hans laid down his pencil and palette, threw himself backward into a great chair, and hanging limply over the side, shook his long hair over his face, lifted his hooked fingers on each side his head, and looked up with comic terror at Deronda, who was obliged to smile, as he said,
"Paint as many Berenices as you like, but I wish you could feel with me--perhaps you will, on reflection--that you should choose another model."

"Ah," said Hans, looking at it rather contemptuously, "too coarse. I was unregenerate then."
Deronda was silent while he closed the folio. Then turning toward Hans, he said, "I dare say my scruples are excessive, Meyrick, but I must ask you to give up this notion."
Hans threw himself into a tragic attitude, screaming, "What! my immortal Berenice series? Think of what you are saying, man - destroying not a life but an immortality. Wait, while I deposit the implements of my art and uproot my hair."
Here Hans laid down his pencil, threw himself into a great chair, and shaking his long hair over his face, hooked his fingers onto it and looked up with comic terror at Deronda, who was obliged to smile, as he said-
"Paint as many Berenices as you like, but I wish you would choose another model."
