To this she returned, "Don't be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in."
And scornfully walked away, and--what was worse--took the candle with
her.
This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only
thing to do being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told from
within to enter. I entered, therefore, and found myself in a pretty
large room, well lighted with wax candles. No glimpse of daylight was
to be seen in it. It was a dressing-room, as I supposed from the
furniture, though much of it was of forms and uses then quite unknown to
me. But prominent in it was a draped table with a gilded looking-glass,
and that I made out at first sight to be a fine lady's dressing-table.
In an arm-chair, with an elbow resting on the table and her head leaning
on that hand, sat the strangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever
see.
She was dressed in rich materials,--satins and lace and silks,--all of
white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent
from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was
white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and
some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid
than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about.
She had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on,--the
other was on the table near her hand,--her veil was but half arranged,
her watch and chain were not put on, and her handkerchief, gloves, some
flowers, and a prayer-book lay confusedly heaped about the
looking-glass.
"Who is it?" said the lady at the table.
"Pip, ma'am."
"Pip?"
"Mr. Pumblechook's boy, ma'am. Come--to play."
"Look at me," said Miss Havisham. "You are not afraid of a woman who
has never seen the sun since you were born?"
I regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie
comprehended in the answer "No."
"I am tired," said Miss Havisham. "I want diversion, and I have done
with men and women. Play."