and gentle, its ray both searching and sweet.  He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton.  I wondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so penetrating:  I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to rise under it; yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved.  “He is not to them what he is to me,” I thought:  “he is not of their kind.  I believe he is of mine; —­ I am sure he is —­ I feel akin to him —­ I understand the language of his countenance and movements:  though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.  Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands?  Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than as a paymaster?  Blasphemy against nature!  Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him.  I know I must conceal my sentiments:  I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me.  For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him.  I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered:- and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.”

Coffee is handed.  The ladies, since the gentlemen entered, have become lively as larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry.  Colonel Dent and Mr. Eshton argue on politics; their wives listen.  The two proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram, confabulate together.  Sir George —­ whom, by-the-bye, I have forgotten to describe, —­ a very big, and very fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa, coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word.  Mr. Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is showing her the engravings of a splendid volume:  she looks, smiles now and then, but apparently says little.  The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton; she glances up at him, and chatters like a wren:  she likes him better than she does Mr. Rochester.  Henry Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa:  Adele shares it with him:  he is trying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders.  With whom will Blanche Ingram pair?  She is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully over an album.  She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not wait too long:  she herself selects a mate.

Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth as solitary as she stands by the table:  she confronts him, taking her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.

“Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?”

“Nor am I.”

“Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that?” (pointing to Adele).  “Where did you pick her up?”