The garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and after we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again into the brewery yard.  I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her walking on the casks, that first old day, and she said, with a cold and careless look in that direction, “Did I?” I reminded her where she had come out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said, “I don’t remember.”  “Not remember that you made me cry?” said I.  “No,” said she, and shook her head and looked about her.  I verily believe that her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry again, inwardly — and that is the sharpest crying of all.

“You must know,” said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and beautiful woman might, “that I have no heart — if that has anything to do with my memory.”

I got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of doubting that.  That I knew better.  That there could be no such beauty without it.

“Oh!  I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt,” said Estella, “and, of course, if it ceased to beat I should cease to be.  But you know what I mean.  I have no softness there, no — sympathy — sentiment — nonsense.”

What was it that was borne in upon my mind when she stood still and looked attentively at me?  Anything that I had seen in Miss Havisham?  No.  In some of her looks and gestures there was that tinge of resemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been acquired by children, from grown person with whom they have been much associated and secluded, and which, when childhood is passed, will produce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces that are otherwise quite different.  And yet I could not trace this to Miss Havisham.  I looked again, and though she was still looking at me, the suggestion was gone.

What was it?

“I am serious,” said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her brow was smooth) as with a darkening of her face; “if we are to be thrown much together, you had better believe it at once.  No!” imperiously stopping me as I opened my lips.  “I have not bestowed my tenderness anywhere.  I have never had any such thing.”

In another moment we were in the brewery so long disused, and she pointed to the high gallery where I had seen her going out on that same first day, and told me she remembered to have been up there, and to have seen me standing scared below.  As my eyes followed her white hand, again the same dim suggestion that I could not possibly grasp, crossed me.  My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm.  Instantly the ghost passed once more, and was gone.

What was it?

“What is the matter?” asked Estella.  “Are you scared again?”

“I should be, if I believed what you said just now,” I replied, to turn it off.

“Then you don’t?  Very well.  It is said, at any rate.  Miss Havisham will soon be expecting you at your old post, though I think that might be laid aside now, with other old belongings.  Let us make one more round of the garden, and then go in.  Come!  You shall not shed tears for my cruelty to-day; you shall be my Page, and give me your shoulder.”