I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to draw Miss Dartle out; and I expected him to say as much when she was gone, and we two were sitting before the fire. But he merely asked me what I thought of her.

“She is very clever, is she not?” I asked.

“Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone,” said Steerforth, “and sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own face and figure these years past. She has worn herself away by constant sharpening. She is all edge.”

“What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip!” I said.

Steerforth’s face fell, and he paused a moment.

“Why, the fact is,” he returned, “ I did that.”

“By an unfortunate accident!”