"My aunt, Miss Lucas, has a mine of them," said Lucilla, "and my taste is hers," and she began the charming old melody.
It was a most successful evening, and when it was over Jane and Lucilla fell into each other's arms in a passion of mutual congratulation.
"Aren't they dears? Even Miss Antrobus isn't so bad. And don't you think Mr. Tombs really has a nice face?"
"Nice face, nice voice, nice manners, nice straight back, nice hands."
"But did you notice Mr. Thornton's hands? Those long, delicate fingers? He's an artist every inch."
"He's the one who plays the violin. The others are 'cello and double bass. How frightfully lucky we are! What times we shall have!"
"Yes," said Jane pensively.
"And they're all fond of dancing."
"Yes." Jane had become still more pensive and was rolling and unrolling the ribbon of her girdle with a preoccupied little frown.
"And they all like acting."
"Yes."
"Don't keep saying 'Yes,'" said Lucilla, beginning to pull out hairpins. "What do you think of Miss Antrobus?"
"I don't know. She is the one I don't feel sure about. She's the fly in the amber, or the toad in the ointment, or whatever it is. She didn't seem to fit in somehow."
"Mr. Rochester seemed to like her."
"Yes," said Jane, "but not desperately, do you think?"
"No, it's not a passionate affair. Friend of childhood's hour, and so on, so Mamma Rochester said."
"What do you mean by 'affair'?"
"Didn't I tell you?" Lucilla asked, brushing vigorously. "Mamma Rochester hinted all sorts of things . . ." Lucilla stopped. Through the double curtain of her hair she had seen, in the mirror, Jane's face.
Ought she to have gone on? To have told Jane all
