"Whose house is it?"

     "Mr. Rochester's."

     "Do you know Mr. Rochester?"

     "No, I have never seen him."

     "He is not resident, then?"

     "No."

     "Can you tell me where he is?"

     "I cannot."

     "You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are--" He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady's-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.

     "I am the governess."

     "Ah, the governess!" he repeated; "deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!" and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he tried to move.