“No； I pleaded off， and he admitted my plea. I’ll tell you how tomanage so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance， which is the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go into the drawing-room while it is empty， before the ladies leave the dinner-table； choose your seat in any quiet nook you like；you need not stay long after the gentlemen come in， unless you please： just let Mr. Rochester see you are there and then slip away—nobody will notice you.”
“Will these people remain long， do you think？”
“Perhaps two or three weeks， certainly not more. After the Easter recess， Sir George Lynn， who was lately elected member for Millcote， will have to go up to town and take his seat； I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him： it surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay at Thornfield.”
It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I was to repair with my charge to the drawing-room. Adèle had been in a state of ecstasy all day， after hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the evening； and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance of the process quickly steadied her， and by the time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed， drooping clusters， her pink satin frock put on， her long sash tied， and her lace mittens adjusted， she looked as grave as any judge. No need to warn her not to disarrange her attire： when she was dressed， she sat demurely down in her little chair， taking care previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it， and assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly was： my best dress (the silver-grey one， purchased for Miss Temple’s wedding， and never worn since) was soon put on； my hair was soon smoothed； my sole ornament， the pearl brooch， soon assumed. We descended.
Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than that through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We found the apartment vacant； a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth， and wax candles shining in bright solitude， amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorned. The crimson curtain hung before the arch： slight as was the separation this drapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon， they spoke in so low a key that nothing of their conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.
Adèle， who appeared to be still under the influence of a most solemnising impression， sat down， without a word， on the footstool I pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat， and taking a book from a table near， endeavoured to read. Adèle brought her stool to my feet； ere long she touched my knee.
“What is it， Adèle？”
“Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques， mademoiselle？ Seulement pour completer ma toilette.”
“You think too much of your ‘toilette，’ Adèle： but you may have a flower.” And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction， as if her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I could not suppress： there was something ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne’s earnest and innate devotion to matters of dress.
A soft sound of rising now became audible； the curtain was swept back from the arch； through it appeared the dining-room， with its lit lustre pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a long table； a band of ladies stood in the opening； they entered， and the curtain fell behind them.
There were but eight； yet， somehow， as they flocked in， they gave the impression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall； many were dressed in white； and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed to magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose and curtseyed to them： one or two bent their heads in return， the others only stared at me.
They dispersed about the room， reminding me， by the lightness and buoyancy of their movements， of a flock of white plumy birds. Some of them threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans： some bent over the tables and examined the flowers and books： the rest gathered in a group round the fire： all talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I knew their names afterwards， and may as well mention them now.
First， there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had evidently been a handsome woman， and was well preserved still. Of her daughters， the eldest， Amy， was rather little： naive， and child-like in face and manner， and piquant in form； her white muslin dress and blue sash became her well. The second， Louisa， was taller and more elegant in figure； with a very pretty face， of that order the French term ‘minois chiffoné’： both sisters were fair as lilies.
Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty， very erect， very haughty-looking， richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful sheen： her dark hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume， and within the circlet of a band of gems.
Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy； but， I thought， more lady-like. She had a slight figure， a pale， gentle face， and fair hair. Her black satin dress， her scarf of rich foreign lace， and her pearl ornaments， pleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame.
