"An apple-pie, of course," said Lucilla and Jane almost together.
"Good," said Mr, Rochester, actually rubbing his hands, "but, believe me, there are young women—yes, and women old enough to know better—who think that they show refinement by calling an apple-pie an apple-tart. Why don't they consult their dictionaries? A tart is an open piece of pastry with jam, apple, or what-not on it. In the pie the apple or other adjunct is covered."
"Of course it is."
"Of course it is," repeated Mr. Rochester; "and now," he went on, putting down his cup and speaking quite mildly, "perhaps you will tell me . . ."
They looked at each other and felt that the hour had struck. They must tell the truth about the panelling.
". . . Tell me," he ended unexpectedly, "how you managed to get into the house again?"
"But we didn't," said Jane. "You said we weren't to and we didn't. Of course we didn't."
"Then how did you get these things out?"
"?"
"The chairs and tables—the tea-things—the flower-vases—the Belgian pottery?"
Again, and now really startled, they looked at each other. Was it possible that their benefactor could be insane?
"You put them here for us—don't you remember?" said Jane gently.
"It won't do, my dear," he answered with almost equal gentleness. "I may be absent-minded—in fact I am. I may be forgetful—of trifles—but I am not so silly as you suppose. Come—why deny it, when here the things are? Own up! How did you get into the house?"
"We didn't," said Jane with extreme coldness. "Please don't doubt our word. We shouldn't have dreamed of doing anything so dishonourable."
"We found the things here, you know," Lucilla explained quietly. "Don't you think you must have given orders
