So, Estella and I went out into the garden by the gate through

which I had strayed to my encounter with the pale young gentleman,

now Herbert; I, trembling in spirit and worshipping the very hem of

her dress; she, quite composed and most decidedly not worshipping

the hem of mine. As we drew near to the place of encounter, she

stopped and said:

"I must have been a singular little creature to hide and see that

fight that day: but I did, and I enjoyed it very much."

"You rewarded me very much."

"Did I?" she replied, in an incidental and forgetful way. "I

remember I entertained a great objection to your adversary, because

I took it ill that he should be brought here to pester me with his

company."

"He and I are great friends now."

"Are you? I think I recollect though, that you read with his

father?"

"Yes."

I made the admission with reluctance, for it seemed to have a

boyish look, and she already treated me more than enough like a

boy.

"Since your change of fortune and prospects, you have changed your

companions," said Estella.

"Naturally," said I.

"And necessarily," she added, in a haughty tone; "what was fit

company for you once, would be quite unfit company for you now."

In my conscience, I doubt very much whether I had any lingering

intention left, of going to see Joe; but if I had, this observation

put it to flight.

"You had no idea of your impending good fortune, in those times?"

said Estella, with a slight wave of her hand, signifying in the

fighting times.

"Not the least."

The air of completeness and superiority with which she walked at my

side, and the air of youthfulness and submission with which I

walked at hers, made a contrast that I strongly felt. It would have

rankled in me more than it did, if I had not regarded myself as

eliciting it by being so set apart for her and assigned to her.

The garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and

after we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out

again into the brewery yard. I showed her to a nicety where I had

seen her walking on the casks, that first old day, and she said,

with a cold and careless look in that direction, "Did I?" I

reminded her where she had come out of the house and given me my

meat and drink, and she said, "I don't remember." "Not remember

that you made me cry?" said I. "No," said she, and shook her head

and looked about her. I verily believe that her not remembering and

not minding in the least, made me cry again, inwardly - and that is

the sharpest crying of all.

"You must know," said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant

and beautiful woman might, "that I have no heart - if that has

anything to do with my memory."

I got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of

doubting that. That I knew better. That there could be no such

beauty without it.

"Oh! I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt,"

said Estella, "and, of course, if it ceased to beat I should cease

to be. But you know what I mean. I have no softness there, no -

sympathy - sentiment - nonsense."

What was it that was borne in upon my mind when she stood still and

looked attentively at me? Anything that I had seen in Miss

Havisham? No. In some of her looks and gestures there was that

tinge of resemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to

have been acquired by children, from grown person with whom they

have been much associated and secluded, and which, when childhood

is passed, will produce a remarkable occasional likeness of

expression between faces that are otherwise quite different. And

yet I could not trace this to Miss Havisham. I looked again, and

though she was still looking at me, the suggestion was gone.

What was it?

"I am serious," said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her

brow was smooth) as with a darkening of her face; "if we are to be

thrown much together, you had better believe it at once.