I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort; but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace Poole--that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.

     "Well," said he, "what are you musing about? What does that grave smile signify?"

     "Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire now, I suppose?"

     "No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room yonder are doing."

     "Discussing the gipsy, I daresay."

     "Sit down!--Let me hear what they said about me."

     "I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o'clock. Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?"