He comes in last： I am not looking at the arch， yet I see him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles， on the meshes of the purse I am forming—I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands， to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap； whereas， I distinctly behold his figure， and I inevitably recall the moment when I last saw it； just after I had rendered him， what he deemed， an essential service， and he，holding my hand， and looking down on my face， surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow； in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached him at that moment！ What had occurred since， calculated to change his and my relative positions？ Yet now， how distant， how far estranged we were！ So far estranged， that I did not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder， when， without looking at me， he took a seat at the other side of the room， and began conversing with some of the ladies.
No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them， and that I might gaze without being observed， than my eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face； I could not keep their lids under control： they would rise， and the irids would fix on him. I looked， and had an acute pleasure in looking，—a precious yet poignant pleasure； pure gold， with a steely point of agony： a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned， yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.
Most true is it that “beauty is in the eye of the gazer.” My master’s colourless， olive face， square， massive brow， broad and jetty eyebrows， deep eyes， strong features， firm， grim mouth，—all energy， decision， will，—were not beautiful， according to rule； but they were more than beautiful to me； they were full of an interest， an influence that quite mastered me，—that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him； the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected； and now， at the first renewed view of him， they spontaneously arrived， green and strong！ He made me love him without looking at me.
I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the Lynns， the languid elegance of Lord Ingram，—even the military distinction of Colonel Dent， contrasted with his look of native pith and genuine power？ I had no sympathy in their appearance， their expression： yet I could imagine that most observers would call them attractive， handsome， imposing； while they would pronounce Mr. Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them smile， laugh—it was nothing； the light of the candles had as much soul in it as their smile； the tinkle of the bell as much significance as their laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile：—his stern features softened； his eye grew both brilliant and gentle， its ray both searching and sweet. He was talking， at the moment， to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I wondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so penetrating： I expected their eyes to fall， their colour to rise under it； yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved. “He is not to them what he is to me，” I thought：“he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine；—I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of his countenance and movements： though rank and wealth sever us widely， I have something in my brain and heart， in my blood and nerves， that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say， a few days since， that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands？ Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than as a paymaster？ Blasphemy against nature！ Every good， true， vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments： I must smother hope； I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind， I do not mean that I have his force to influence， and his spell to attract； I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must， then， repeat continually that we are for ever sundered：—and yet， while I breathe and think， I must love him.”
Coffee is handed. The ladies， since the gentlemen entered， havebecome lively as larks； conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel Dent and Mr. Eshton argue on politics； their wives listen. The two proud dowagers， Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram， confabulate together. Sir George—whom， by-the-bye， I have forgotten to describe，—a very big， and very fresh-looking country gentleman， stands before their sofa， coffee-cup in hand， and occasionally puts in a word. Mr. Frédérick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram， and is showing her the engravings of a splendid volume： she looks， smiles now and then， but apparently says little. The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton； she glances up at him， and chatters like a wren： she likes him better than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa： Adèle shares it with him： he is trying to talk French with her， and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whom will Blanche Ingram pair？ She is standing alone at the table， bending gracefully over an album. She seems waiting to be sought； but she will not wait too long： she herself selects a mate.
Mr. Rochester， having quitted the Eshtons， stands on thehearth as solitary as she stands by the table： she confronts him， taking her station on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.
“Mr. Rochester， I thought you were not fond of children？”
“Nor am I.”
“Then， what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that？” (pointing to Adèle). “Where did you pick her up？”
“I did not pick her up； she was left on my hands.”
“You should have sent her to school.”
“I could not afford it： schools are so dear.”
