"I saw billiards-rooms myself, the day we bought a lot of newspapers," said Jane helpfully, "and I thought it looked horrid, but then I thought it must be a mistake of the printers."
"Not at all," said Mr. Rochester, "it is intentional. So is that revolting and unnatural plural 'pastries'; so is . . ."
He was launched. Jane and Lucilla found means to exchange glances of congratulations. But still ears were pricked—as far as young ladies' ears can be pricked—for the sound of the feet of jailbirds on the gravel. And still none came.
It seemed to Jane that she and Lucilla had quite enough on their hands in this sudden necessity for soothing Mr. Rochester and compelling him to refrain from the subject of the panels till he could contemplate it through a haze of shortcake, without having to introduce to him such an acquaintance as Mr. Dix, a young man who had not only been in prison—that, Jane felt, might happen by accident to any of us—but was actually not ashamed of it.
". . . The degradation of the language," Mr. Rochester was saying. "The depraved Cockney accent of half-educated teachers replacing the sturdy local dialects . . ."
The girls leaned forward, attitude and expression alike designed to convey the impression of rapt attention. "If he'll only keep on till he's had his second cup," Jane told herself, "it won't be so bad." He finished the first and accepted the second. There was a pause, which both girls were afraid to break.
"What," he asked suddenly, "do you call the article of food which is baked in an earthenware dish, rather deep and usually of an oval form, though sometimes round or oblong: outside is pastry, within are apples, cloves and sugar? What do you call it?"
"Is it a riddle?" Jane asked.
"No, no," he said impatiently; "a perfectly plain question. You recognise the thing from my description? Well, what do you call it?"
