er, he may possibly get the strength on his side; if it should be
a question of intellect, he certainly will not. It would be chance
work to give an opinion how a fellow of that sort will turn out in such
circumstances, because it's a toss-up between two results."

"May I ask what they are?"

"A fellow like our friend the Spider," answered Mr. Jaggers, "either
beats or cringes. He may cringe and growl, or cringe and not growl; but
he either beats or cringes. Ask Wemmick his opinion."

"Either beats or cringes," said Wemmick, not at all addressing himself
to me.

"So here's to Mrs. Bentley Drummle," said Mr. Jaggers, taking a decanter
of choicer wine from his dumb-waiter, and filling for each of us and
for himself, "and may the question of supremacy be settled to the lady's
satisfaction! To the satisfaction of the lady and the gentleman,
it never will be. Now, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, how slow you are
to-day!"

She was at his elbow when he addressed her, putting a dish upon the
table. As she withdrew her hands from it, she fell back a step or two,
nervously muttering some excuse. And a certain action of her fingers, as
she spoke, arrested my attention.

"What's the matter?" said Mr. Jaggers.

"Nothing. Only the subject we were speaking of," said I, "was rather
painful to me."

The action of her fingers was like the action of knitting. She stood
looking at her master, not understanding whether she was free to go, or
whether he had more to say to her and would call her back if she did go.
Her look was very intent. Surely, I had seen exactly such eyes and such
hands on a memorable occasion very lately!

He dismissed her, and she glided out of the room. But she remained
before me as plainly as if she were still there. I looked at those
hands, I looked at those eyes, I looked at that flowing hair; and I
compared them with other hands, other eyes, other hair, that I knew of,
and with what those might be after twenty years of a brutal husband
and a stormy life. I looked again at those hands and eyes of the
housekeeper, and thought of the inexplicable feeling that had come over
me when I last walked--not alone--in the ruined garden, and through the
deserted brewery. I thought how the same feeling had come back when I
saw a face looking at me, and a hand waving to me from a stage-coach
window; and how it had come back again and had flashed about me like
lightning, when I had passed in a carriage--not alone--through