to the fire, and my face to the room,
favours observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally
watched Adele (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious
study,--reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day).
She pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk
frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her
blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones. 'Il
faut que je l'essaie!' cried she, 'et a l'instant meme!' and she rushed
out of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in
a few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see,--a
miniature of Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the
rising of--But never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about
to receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether it
will be realised."

Ere long, Adele's little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She
entered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of
rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could be
gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of
rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings
and small white satin sandals.

"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she, bounding forwards; "et mes
souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser!"

And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the room till, having
reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe,
then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming--

"Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;" then rising, she
added, "C'est comme cela que maman faisait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"

"Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and, 'comme cela,' she charmed my English
gold out of my British breeches' pocket. I have been green, too, Miss
Eyre,--ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once
freshened me. My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French
floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not
valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort
which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the
blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it
and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous
sins, great or small, by one good work. I'll e