d　with　his　white　neckcloth；　and　stilted　up　on　his　thick…soled　high…lows；　eh？”

“St。　John　dresses　well。　He　is　a　handsome　man：　tall；　fair；　with　blue　eyes；　and　a　Grecian　profile。”

（Aside。）　“Damn　him！”—（To　me。）　“Did　you　like　him；　Jane？”

“Yes；　Mr。　Rochester；　I　liked　him：　but　you　asked　me　that　before。”

I　perceived；　of　course；　the　drift　of　my　interlocutor。　Jealousy　had　got　hold　of　him：　she　stung　him；　but　the　sting　was　salutary：　it　gave　him　respite　from　the　gnawing　fang　of　melancholy。　I　would　not；　therefore；　immediately　charm　the　snake。

“Perhaps　you　would　rather　not　sit　any　longer　on　my　knee；　Miss　Eyre？”　was　the　next　somewhat　unexpected　observation。

“Why　not；　Mr。　Rochester？”

“The　picture　you　have　just　drawn　is　suggestive　of　a　rather　too　overwhelming　contrast。　Your　words　have　delineated　very　prettily　a　graceful　Apollo：　he　is　present　to　your　imagination；—tall；　fair；　blue…eyed；　and　with　a　Grecian　profile。　Your　eyes　dwell　on　a　Vulcan；—a　real　blacksmith；　brown；　broad…shouldered：　and　blind　and　lame　into　the　bargain。”

“I　never　thought　of　it；　before；　but　you　certainly　are　rather　like　Vulcan；　sir。”

“Well；　you　can　leave　me；　ma’am：　but　before　you　go”　（and　he　retained　me　by　a　firmer　grasp　than　ever）；　“you　will　be　pleased　just　to　answer　me　a　question　or　two。”　He　paused。

“r。　Rochester？”

Then　followed　this　cross…examination。

“St。　John　made　you　schoolmistress　of　Morton　before　he　knew　you　were　his　cousin？”

“Yes。