CHAPTER XXV
Many of my readers are no doubt familiar with the tremulous timidities, the doubtful diffidences, the agitation, the soul-searching with which a young woman prepares for the first meeting with his mother, and this even if he be merely an agreeable acquaintance who might possibly be suspected of harbouring sentiments a little beyond those involved in mere acquaintanceship. You will have noticed how the heart beats, how the hands tremble, how long it takes to decide on the right frock, and how impossible it is to do the hair decently. You know how desirous you are that she should like you, and how determined you are that you will like her. And how, as the moment of meeting approaches, and when it is beyond doubt too late to make any change, you wish wretchedly that you had chosen another frock and done your hair a different way.
You know how you wish that your hands were not at once warm and clammy, and how you wonder whether she can see your heart beating like a steam-hammer under your thin best jumper.
These nerve-racking experiences Jane was spared. And besides, of course, Mr. Rochester was nothing to her—or, at any rate, only a friend. And she had been spared the torments of nervous anticipation. On the other hand, Mr. Rochester was a friend, and she would have liked to be decent to his mother. Instead of which she had thumped his mother on the back and called her "old girl," and said, "No, you don't!"
What was Jane to do? What would you have done?
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