CHAPTER XVI
"I think," said Jane, in a small, flat voice, "that I would rather go before he comes."
"Before who comes?" Mr. Rochester was laying the keys out on the table, one by one, in a row.
"Your uncle."
"But he isn't coming," said Mr. Rochester, still intent on the keys. "Why can't people use key-rings? These were on a cord, and it's broken. They were all in a certain order. Only two labelled A and B—the rest en suite. A silly game. No—he's not coming. He's gone to Thibet. There's a Buddhist manuscript there that he must see, or perish. So he's gone to see it. But I've got a letter for you from him."
"You can post it to us," said Lucilla, in a voice smaller and flatter than Jane's.
"No need for that—I'll give it you in half a minute, I'm only trying to remember how these things go. My dear girl," he ended, in a quite changed voice, "whatever is the matter?"
"Oh, nothing," said Jane, now sufficiently recovered to bristle defensively. "Everything's for the best in the best of all possible worlds, as Marcus Aurelius said, didn't he? Only those unexpected things do rather take your breath away. I daresay our new gardener can take down the board. I don't mind in the least," she went on, and she was now, indeed, a little breathless; "but I must say I think it would have been better to have let us alone, and not let us begin to work here and hope and plan things, and then spring this on us." She walked to the window and stood looking
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