instinct, and found herself continuing: "It has all the lure of the bygone, hasn't it?"
"Are you a fool or are you being clever?" Mrs. Rochester mused. Aloud she said something vague about the beauties of old gardens, to which Jane alertly responded by something still vaguer about the beauties of Nature. "So nice, isn't it?" she found herself saying. "Old trees and lawns and things. So quaint."
The talk stagnated in this backwater for some time. It was Mrs. Rochester—Jane was determined that it should be—who moved back to the main stream.
"But I mustn't forget the object of my visit in your delightful conversation," she said—most unfairly, Jane thought. "We really must talk business, mustn't we?"
If Jane hadn't seen the real Mrs. Rochester in the looking-glass she might have believed in that tone of gentle camaraderie. As it was, she answered coldly:
"Yes? About the P.G.'s—paying guests, I mean? Our terms are five guineas a week, and we haven't any rooms except on the second floor."
"You have other guests then? Yes?"
"Yes, several," said Jane.
The young friend I am making these enquiries for is a Miss Antrobus—a very charming girl. She is coming to London to study something—now what is it—art—music? Oh no, I remember, it's political economy. And it wouldn't suit her health to be right in London. So it seemed as though this would be quite ideal. Thank you so much for the information you have given me—and for our delightful chat. And now I think I had better see your mother."
"My mother," said Jane steadily, "is dead."
"Well, your aunt then, or your cousin, or whoever it is that chaperones you."
"Would my great aunt do?" said Jane, suddenly making up her mind.
"Certainly."
"Well, I don't think she's at home to-day, but you can
