Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram was a genius，but she was self-conscious- remarkably self-conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that science: though，as she said，she liked flowers，"especially wild ones"; Miss Ingram had，and she ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived she was (what is vernacularly termed) trailing Mrs. Dent; that is，playing on her ignorance: her trail might be clever，but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played: her execution was brilliant; she sang，her voice was fine; she talked French apart to her mama; and she talked it well，with fluency and with a good accent.

Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche; softer features too，and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)- but Mary was deficient in life: her face lacked expression，her eye lustre; she had nothing to say，and having once taken her seat，remained fixed like a statue in its niche. The sisters were both attired in spotless white.

And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be likely to make? I could not tell- I did not know his taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic，she was the very type of majesty: then she was acplished，sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her，I thought; and that he did admire her，I already seemed to have obtained proof: to remove the last shade of doubt，it remained but to see them together.

You are not to suppose，reader，that Adele has all this time been sitting motionless on the stool at my feet: no; when the ladies entered，she rose，advanced to meet them，made a stately reverence，and said with gravity-