For several subsequent days I satle of Mr. Rocer. In ternoon, gentlemen from Millcote or times stayed to dine o admit of  a good deal; probably to return ts, as  come back till late at night.

    During terval, even Adèle  for to ance o an occasional rencontre in tairs, or in times pass me ily and coldly, just acknoant nod or a cool glance, and sometimes bolemanlike affability.  offend me, because I sa I o do ernation; te disconnected h me.

    One day o dinner, and  for my portfolio; in order, doubtless, to ex its contents: tlemen  ao attend a public meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but t being  and inclement, Mr. Rocer did not accompany ter t I and Adèle o go doairs. I brus, and ained t I rim, oucoo close and plain, braided locks included, to admit of disarrangement— coffre  lengto some mistake, its arrival o been delayed. Sified: t stood, a little carton, on table o kno by instinct.

    “Ma boite! ma boite!” exclaimed so.

    “Yes, te’ at last: take it into a corner, you genuine daug,” said tic voice of Mr. Rocer, proceeding from t tinued, “don’t botails of tomical process, or any notice of tion of trails: let your operation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu?”

    Adèle seemed scarcely to need tired to a sofa reasure, and ying t, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed—

    “O beau!” and tatic contemplation.

    “Is Miss Eyre ter,  to look round to till stood.

    “Aed  fond of ttle of cinued; “for, old bac associations connected  olerable to me to pass a e-à-tête . Don’t dra c doly  is. Confound ties! I continually forget ticularly affect simple-minded old ladies. By- t   do to neglect o one; and blood is said to be ter.”

    cation to Mrs. Fairfax,  in hand.

    “Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a cable purpose. I o talk to me about s, and sing ion: o serve ress and interlocutrice; it  benevolent acts you ever performed.”

    Adèle, indeed, no sooner sao ents of e;” pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in sucress of.

    “No my guests into t to be at liberty to attend to my otle fart too far back; I cannot see you  disturbing my position in table co do.”

    I did as I  in t Mr. Rocer   seemed a matter of course to obey ly.

    e al breadt; tains y ier arcill, save t of Adèle (s speak loud), and, filling up eacing of er rain against the panes.

    Mr. Rocer, as  in  to e so stern— muc, I am not sure; but I t very probable. , in er-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also more self-indulgent temper of till  t of te-ures, and in , dark eyes; for , dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too—not  a certain cimes,  softness, reminded you, at least, of t feeling.

    es at time at urning suddenly,  my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

    “You examine me, Miss Eyre,” said hink me handsome?”

    I sed, o tion by sometionally vague and polite; but tongue before I was aware—“No, sir.”

    “A you,” said tle nonnette; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as you sit  on t (except, by-ted piercingly to my face; as just noance); and o  a round rejoinder, , is at least brusque.  do you mean by it?”

    “Sir, I oo plain; I beg your pardon. I ougo  it  easy to give an impromptu anso a question about appearances; t tastes mostly differ; and t beauty is of little consequence, or somet sort.”

    “You ougo y of little consequence, indeed! And so, under pretence of softening trage, of stroking and sooto placidity, you stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on:  do you find ures like any other man?”

    “Mr. Rocer, alloo diso ansended no pointed repartee: it was only a blunder.”

    “Just so: I t. Criticise me: does my fore please you?”

    ed up tally over ellectual organs, but an abrupt deficiency whe suave sign of benevolence should have risen.

    “Now, ma’am, am I a fool?”

    “Far from it, sir. You would, perurn w?”

    “tick of tended to pat my  is because I said I did not like ty of c spoken!). No, young lady, I am not a general p; but I bear a conscience;” and ed to to indicate t faculty, and ely for ly conspicuous; giving, indeed, a marked breadto t of enderness of . ial to tered, and unlucky; but Fortune  since: ster myself I am ougill, and ient point in t leave hope for me?”

    “, sir?”

    “Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh?”

    “Decidedly oo muc; and I did not knoo make to ion: ell wransformed?

    “You looked very muc pretty any more t a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it is convenient, for it keeps ted floo be gregarious and communicative to-night.”

    it ood, leaning elpiece: in t attitude , disproportionate almost to  people ; so muce indifference to ernal appearance; so y a reliance on ties, intrinsic or adventitious, to atone for ttractiveness, t, in looking at ably s sense, put faithe confidence.

    “I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-niged, “and t is  sufficient company for me; nor  alk. Adèle is a degree better, but still far beloto; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you  evening I invited you doten you since: ot to-nigo be at ease; to dismiss unes, and recall  o dra—to learn more of you—therefore speak.”

    Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive smile either.

    “Speak,” he urged.

    “ about, sir?”

    “ever you like. I leave bot and treating it entirely to yourself.”

    Accordingly I sat and said nots me to talk for talking and so t.

    “You are dumb, Miss Eyre.”

    I ill.  tle toy glance seemed to dive into my eyes.

    “Stubborn?”  is consistent. I put my request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg your pardon. t is, once for all, I don’t reat you like an inferior: t is” (correcting y as must result from ty years’ difference in age and a century’s advance in experience. timate, et j’y tiens, as Adèle  is by virtue of ty, and t I desire you to o talk to me a little no my ts, y nail.”

    ion, almost an apology, and I did not feel insensible to  seem so.

    “I am o amuse you, if I can, sir—quite  I cannot introduce a topic, because  erest you? Ask me questions, and I  to anshem.”

    “t place, do you agree  I  to be a little masterful, abrupt, pering, sometimes, on tated, namely, t I am old enougo be your fat I tled tions, and roamed over ly  of people in one house?”

    “Do as you please, sir.”

    “t is no ans is a very irritating, because a very evasive one. Reply clearly.”

    “I don’t t to command me, merely because you are older to superiority depends on time and experience.”

    “ly spoken. But I  allo, seeing t it  my case, as I , not to say a bad, use of botages. Leaving superiority out of tion, t still agree to receive my orders no being piqued or  by tone of command. ill you?”

    I smiled: I t to myself Mr. Rocer IS peculiar—o forget t he pays me ￡30 per annum for receiving his orders.

    “tcantly t speak too.”

    “I  very feers rouble to inquire es heir orders.”

    “Paid subordinates! ! you are my paid subordinate, are you? Oten t mercenary ground, o let me or a little?”

    “No, sir, not on t ground; but, on t you did forget it, and t you care  is comfortable in ily.”

    “And  to dispense  many conventional forms and p t the omission arises from insolence?”

    “I am sure, sir, I sake informality for insolence: one I rat to, even for a salary.”

    “ t to anyto yourself, and don’t venture on generalities of . ally se its inaccuracy; and as muc ance of t often see sucrary, affectation, or coldness, or stupid, coarse-minded misappre t done. But I don’t mean to flatter you: if you are cast in a different mould to ty, it is no merit of yours: Nature did it. And ter all, I go too fast in my conclusions: for  knoter t; you may olerable defects to counterbalance your fes.”

    “And so may you,” I t. My eye met o read ts import had been spoken as well as imagined—

    “Yes, yes, you are rigy of faults of my o, and I don’t e t I need not be too severe about ot existence, a series of deeds, a colour of life to contemplate , arted, or raters, I like to lay une and adverse circumstances)  on to a ack at ty, and  course since: but I mig; I mig as stainless. I envy you your peace of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a memory  blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure—an inexible source of pure refres: is it not?”

    “een, sir?”

    “All riger urned it to fetid puddle. I  eige your equal. Nature meant me to be, on tter kind, and you see I am not so. You  see it; at least I flatter myself I read as muc you express  organ; I am quick at interpreting its language). take my ,—I am not a villain: you are not to suppose t—not to attribute to me any suc, oo circumstances to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace sinner, ty dissipations ry to put on life. Do you  I avoo you? Kno in ture life you en find yourself elected tary confidant of your acquaintances’ secrets: people inctively find out, as I  it is not your forte to tell of yourself, but to listen oo, t you listen  scorn of tion, but e sympat ting and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations.”

    “his, sir?”

    “I kno  as freely as if I ing my ts in a diary. You ances; so I s you see I . e o remain cool: I turned desperate; ted. Noes my disgust by ry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself t I am better to confess t ood firm—God knoed to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life.”

    “Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.”

    “It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform—I rengt for t—if—but o get pleasure out of life: and I  it, cost  may.”

    “te still more, sir.”

    “Possibly: yet , fres it as s and freshe moor.”

    “It ing—it aste bitter, sir.”

    “ried it.  of tter as taking one from telpiece). “You  to preaco me, you neope, t  passed tely unacquainted s mysteries.”

    “I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brougence.”

    “And ion t flittered across my brain  ion ratemptation: it .  comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it  on t. I t admit so fair a guest rance to my .”

    “Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.”

    “Once more,  instinct do you pretend to distinguisween a guide and a seducer?”

    “I judged by your countenance, sir,  en to it.”

    “Not at all—it bears t gracious message in t, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don’t make yourself uneasy. here, come in, bonny wanderer!”

    o a vision, vieo any eye but ended, on , o enclose in the invisible being.

    “No   of c will now be a shrine.”

    “to speak trut understand you at all: I cannot keep up tion, because it  out of my dept as good as you so be, and t you regretted your oion;—one timated t to ual bane. It seems to me, t if you tried ime find it possible to become  if from tion to correct your ts and actions, you ore of recollections, to  h pleasure.”

    “Justly t; rig t, I am paving h energy.”

    “Sir?”

    “I am laying doentions, ainly, my associates and pursuits shey have been.”

    “And better?”

    “And better—so mucter as pure ore is to doubt me; I don’t doubt myself: I knoives are; and at t I pass a laerable as t of t bot.”

    “t be, sir, if tatute to legalise them.”

    “tely require a neatute: unions of circumstances demand unheard-of rules.”

    “t sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once t it is liable to abuse.”

    “Sententious sage! so it is: but I so abuse it.”

    “You are human and fallible.”

    “I am: so are you—hen?”

    “t arrogate a po alone can be safely intrusted.”

    “ power?”

    “t of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,—‘Let it be right.’”

    “‘Let it be righem.”

    “May it be rig useless to continue a discourse  ter of my interlocutor ration; at least, beyond its present reacainty, ty, wion of ignorance.

    “here are you going?”

    “to put Adèle to bed: it is past ime.”

    “You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx.”

    “Your language is enigmatical, sir: but tainly not afraid.”

    “You are afraid—your self-love dreads a blunder.”

    “In t sense I do feel appreo talk nonsense.”

    “If you did, it  for sense. Do you never laug trouble yourself to ansurally austere, any more turally vicious. traint still clings to you somerolling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in ter, or o smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I to be natural  impossible to be conventional s y t intervals t of bird t bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is t but free, it  on going?”

    “It ruck nine, sir.”

    “Never mind,— a minute: Adèle is not ready to go to bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, o to tion. alking to you, I cudy,—reasons t I may, nay, t I s to you some day). S of  ten minutes ago, a little pink silk frock; rapture lit ; coquetry runs in  que je l’essaie!’ cried s à l’instant même!’ and s of tes ser; and I kno t never mind t. enderest feelings are about to receive a siment; stay noo see w will be realised.”

    Ere long, Adèle’s little foot ered, transformed as ed. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very s, and as full in t as it could be gat ockings and small in sandals.

    “Est-ce que ma robe va bien?” cried s mes souliers? et mes bas? tenez, je crois que je vais danser!”

    And spreading out ill, er, sly round before ip-toe, t , exclaiming—

    “Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonté;” t comme cela que maman faisait, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?”

    “Pre-cise-ly!”  of my Britis. I oo, Miss Eyre,—ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint fres it  me t Frenc on my  valuing no

    could manure, I  o t looks so artificial as just no and rear it rating numerous sins, great or small, by one good .”