“Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon.  I ought to have replied that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little consequence, or something of that sort.”

“You ought to have replied no such thing.  Beauty of little consequence, indeed!  And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage, of stroking and soothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife under my ear!  Go on:  what fault do you find with me, pray?  I suppose I have all my limbs and all my features like any other man?”

“Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer:  I intended no pointed repartee:  it was only a blunder.”

“Just so:  I think so:  and you shall be answerable for it.  Criticise me:  does my forehead not please you?”

He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs, but an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should have risen.

“Now, ma’am, am I a fool?”

“Far from it, sir.  You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired in return whether you are a philanthropist?”

“There again!  Another stick of the penknife, when she pretended to pat my head:  and that is because I said I did not like the society of children and old women (low be it spoken!).  No, young lady, I am not a general philanthropist; but I bear a conscience;” and he pointed to the prominences which are said to indicate that faculty, and which, fortunately for him, were sufficiently conspicuous; giving, indeed, a marked breadth to the upper part of his head:  “and, besides, I once had a kind of rude tenderness of heart.  When I was as old as you, I was a feeling fellow enough, partial to the unfledged, unfostered, and unlucky; but Fortune has knocked me about since:  she has even kneaded me with her knuckles, and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-rubber ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still, and with one sentient point in the middle of the lump.  Yes:  does that leave hope for me?”

“Hope of what, sir?”

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

“Decidedly he has had too much wine,” I thought; and I did not know what answer to make to his queer question:  how could I tell whether he was capable of being re-transformed?

“You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it is convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from my physiognomy, and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug; so puzzle on.  Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night.”