“I beg your pardon, sir,” the newcomer said, “but can you tell me whereabouts in this neighborhood I can find a house called Blackbird’s Nest? A Mr. Bertrand Saton lives there, I believe.”
Rochester hesitated for a few seconds. He looked at the woman, summing her up with swift comprehension. Lois, by his side, stared at her in surprise. She was inclined to be stout, and her face was flushed with walking, notwithstanding an obviously recent use of the powder-puff. A mass of copper-colored hair was untidily arranged underneath a large black hat. Her clothes were fashionable in cut, but cheap in quality. She wore openwork stockings and high-heeled shoes, which had already suffered from walking along the dusty roads. While she waited for an answer to her question, she drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and the perfume of the violet scented hedge by the side of which they stood, was no longer a thing apparent.
Rochester, whose hatred of perfumes was one of his few weaknesses, drew back a step involuntarily.
“If you pass through the village,” he said, “Blackbird’s Nest is the second house upon the right-hand side. It lies a little way back from the road, but you cannot miss it.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged,” the lady answered. “If I had known it was as far as this, I’d have waited till I could have found a carriage. The porter at the station told me that it was just a step.”
Rochester raised his cap and turned away. Lois walked soberly by his side for several moments.
“I wonder,” she said softly, “what a person like that could want with Mr. Saton.”
Rochester shrugged his shoulders.
“We know nothing of Saton or his life,” he answered. “He has wandered up and down the world, and I daresay he has made some queer acquaintances.”