the other did not pursue the theme of the affections, family or otherwise.
"What a delightful old-world spot this is," she said—"so quaint and picturesque. It has all the lure of the bygone, has it not?"
"I'm glad you think so," said Jane politely, but in her heart she was saying, "I wonder whether you always talk like the Woman's Page in the Daily Yell. How awful for him if you do."
"I suppose you live quite an idyllic life here—surrounded by friends and relations . . . no anxieties?"
"Not at all, thank you," said Jane.
"No, of course not. At your age life is a garden of roses, is it not? But what I really wanted to talk to you about was a little private matter between us two," the thin voice went on with a detestable archness. "And I needn't apologise for bringing it up, need I? For I'm sure it's a subject in which you take an interest. . . . Young people, you know—so sympathetic. Now tell me candidly, and don't be afraid of offending me, dear: don't you think he's wasting his time—just the least in the world?"
"Who?" Jane felt obliged to ask.
"Why, my boy. Don't you think he's wasting his time, just a wee bit?"
Jane, heavy with astonishment and impotent rage, could only say she supposed his mother knew best.
"Oh no!" A delicately-gloved but intolerably waggish forefinger was shaken in Jane's face. She would have liked to bite it. "Oh no—you can judge far better than I can. You have so many more opportunities of seeing my dear son."
Jane ventured to suppose that Mr. Rochester knew his own business best.
"Oh no!" The voice was too thin for cooing, but it tried to coo. "Young men never know best—never. We have to think for them, we poor, weak women. He has his way to make in the world, and"
"Well, let him make it!" said Jane, suddenly aware
