He was，in short，in his after dinner mood; more expanded and genial，and also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning; still he looked preciously grim，cushioning his massive head against the swelling back of his chair，and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features，and in his great，dark eyes; for he had great，dark eyes，and very fine eyes，too- not without a certain change in their depths sometimes，which，if it was not softness，reminded you，at least，of that feeling.

He had been looking two minutes at the fire，and I had been looking the same length of time at him，when，turning suddenly，he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

"You examine me，Miss Eyre," said he: "do you think me handsome?"

I should，if I had deliberated，have replied to this question by something conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware- "No，sir."

"Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you," said he: "you have the air of a little nonnette; quaint，quiet，grave，and simple，as you sit with your hands before you，and your eyes generally bent on the carpet (except，by the bye，when they are directed piercingly to my face; as just now，for instance); and when one asks you a question，or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply，you rap out a round rejoinder，which，if not blunt，is at least brusque. What do you mean by it?"

"Sir，I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little consequence，or something of that sort."