“That’s new. But I warn you, your brain won’t stand that. You know the taint in the family as well as I do, it has shewn itself in your actions. Well, go on drinking and you will end in Bedlam instead of the workhouse. They call you ‘Mad Rochester’; you know that.” She choked. “I have blushed to be known as your sister—I have tried to keep my place here and save you. It’s ended.” She turned to the door.
Jones had been making up his mind. He would tell the whole affair. This Rochester was a thoroughly bad lot evidently; well, he would turn the tables on him now.
“Look here,” said he. “I am not the man you think I am.”
“Tosh!” cried the woman.
She opened the door, passed out, and shut it with a snap.
“Well, I’m d——d,” said Jones, for the second time in connection with Rochester.
The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter to eleven; the faint sound of the car had ceased. The lady of the feather boa had evidently taken her departure, and the house had resumed its cloistral silence.
He waited a moment to make sure, then he went into the hall where a huge flunkey—a new one, more curious than the others, was lounging near the door.
“My hat,” said Jones.
The thing flew, and returned with a glossy silk hat, a tortoiseshell handled cane, and a pair of new suede gloves of a delicate dove colour. Then it opened the door, and Jones, clapping the hat on his head, walked out.