"the servants' dinner will soon be ready: will you come down?"
"No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and I'll carry it up-stairs."
"You'll have some meat?"
"Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that's all."
"And the sago?"
"Never mind it, at present: I shall be coming down before tea-time: I'll make it myself."
The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me; so I departed.
I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole; and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield: in questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning; or at the very least dismissed from her master's service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me too to secresy? It was strange: a bold, vindictive and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of
