"Do you forgive me, Jane?"
"I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection, I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you: but it was not right."
"Oh! you have been very correct—very careful, very sensible."
I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort: but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself: besides, I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace Poole—that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her: I had never thought of Mr Rochester.
"Well," said he, "what are you musing about? What does that grave smile signify?"
"Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire now, I suppose?"
"No: stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room yonder are doing."
"Discussing the gipsy, I daresay."
