“Absolutely nothing,” he admitted. “He has an uncommon name, but I believe that I gathered from him once that his parentage was not particularly exalted.”
“At least,” she said, with a little sigh, “he is quite presentable. I call him, in fact, remarkably good-looking, and his manners leave nothing to be desired. He has lived abroad, I should think.”
“He may have lived anywhere,” Rochester admitted.
“Well, I’ll have him next me at dinner,” she declared. “I daresay I shall find out all about him pretty soon. Come, Henry, I am quite sure that everyone is down. You and I play host and hostess so seldom that we have forgotten our manners.”
They descended to the drawing-room, and Lady Mary murmured her apologies. Everyone, however, seemed too absorbed to hear them. They were listening to Saton, who was standing, the centre of a little group, telling stories.
“It was in Buenos Ayres,” Rochester heard him conclude, amidst a ripple of laughter. “I can assure you that I saw the incident with my own eyes.”
Lois Champneyes—an heiress, pretty, and Rochester’s ward—came floating across the room to them. She wore a plain muslin gown, of simpler cut than was usually seen at Lady Mary’s house-parties, and her complexion showed no signs whatever of town life. Her hair—it was bright chestnut color, merging in places to golden—was twisted simply in one large coil on the top of her head. She wore no jewelry, and she had very much the appearance of a child just escaped from the schoolroom.
“Mary,” she exclaimed, drawing her hostess on one side, “you must send me in with Mr. Saton! He is perfectly charming, and isn’t it a lovely name? Do tell me who he is, and whether I may fall in love with him.”
Lady Mary nodded.
“My dear child,” she said, “I shall do nothing of the sort. You are not nearly old enough to take care of yourself, and we know nothing about this young man at all. Besides, I want him for myself.”