After sitting a little while with her sick daughter, Mrs Bennet and her two younger daughters, who had accompanied her, accepted an invitation to join the rest of the party in the breakfast parlour.

‘I hope Miss Bennet is not worse than you expected,’ said Bingley.

He has been upset by the whole business, and nothing would comfort him but a constant string of instructions to the housekeeper, with the intention of increasing Miss Bennet’s comfort.

‘Indeed I have, sir,’ said Mrs Bennet. ‘She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.’

‘Removed!’ cried Bingley. ‘It must not be thought of.’

Caroline did not seem pleased with his remark. I think the presence of an invalid in the house is beginning to irk her. She has spent very little time with her guest, and if Elizabeth had not come, her sister would have spent a very lonely time in a house of strangers.

Caroline replied civilly enough, however, saying that Miss Bennet would receive every attention.

Mrs Bennet impressed upon us all how ill her daughter was, and then, looking about her, remarked that Bingley had chosen well in renting Netherfield.

‘You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease,’ she said.

‘Whatever I do is done in a hurry,’ he said.

This led to a discussion of character, whereupon Elizabeth confessed herself to be a student of it.

‘The country can in general supply but few subjects for such a study,’ I said.

‘But people themselves alter so much that there is something new to be observed in them for ever,’ she returned.

Talking to Elizabeth is like talking to no one else. It is not a commonplace activity; rather it is a stimulating exercise for the mind.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Bennet, startling us all. ‘I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in the town. I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr Bingley?’

Bingley, as easy-going as ever, said that he was equally happy in either.

‘That is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,’ she said, looking at me, ‘seemed to think the country was nothing at all.’

Elizabeth had the goodness to blush, and tell her mother she was quite mistaken, but I was forcibly reminded of the fact that no amount of blushes, however pleasing, can overcome the disadvantage of such a mother.

Mrs Bennet grew worse and worse, praising Sir William Lucas’s manners, and making veiled references to ‘persons who find themselves very important and never open their mouths’ by which, I suppose, she meant me.

Worse was to come. The youngest girl stepped forward and begged Bingley for a ball. He is so goodhumoured that he readily agreed, after which Mrs Bennet and her two youngest daughters departed. Elizabeth returned to her sister’s sick room.

Caroline was merciless once she had left.

‘They dine with four-and-twenty families!’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I stopped myself from laughing! And the poor woman thinks that is a varied society.’

‘I never heard anything more ridiculous in all my life,’ said Louisa.

‘Or vulgar,’ said Caroline. ‘And the youngest girl! Begging for a ball. I cannot believe you encouraged her, Charles.’

‘But I like giving balls,’ protested Bingley.

‘You should not have rewarded her impertinence,’ said Louisa.

‘No, indeed. You will only make her worse. Though how she could become any worse I do not know. Kitty was dreadful enough, but the youngest girl – what was her name?’

‘Lydia,’ supplied Louisa.

‘Lydia! Of course, that was it! To be so forward. You would not like your sister to be so forward, I am persuaded, Mr Darcy.’

‘No, I would not,’ I said, ill pleased.

To compare Georgiana to such a girl was beyond anything I could tolerate.

‘And yet they are the same age,’ went on Caroline. ‘It is incredible how two girls can be so different, the one so elegant and refined, and the other so brash and noisy.’

‘It is their upbringing,’ said Louisa. ‘With such a low mother, how could Lydia be anything but vulgar?’

‘Those poor girls,’ said Caroline, shaking her head.

‘They are all touched with the same vulgarity, I fear.’

‘Not Miss Bennet!’ protested Bingley. ‘You said yourself she was a sweet girl.’

‘And so she is. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps she has escaped the taint of mixing with such people. But Elizabeth Bennet is inclined to be pert, even though she does have fine eyes,’ said Caroline, turning her gaze towards me.

I had been about to dismiss Elizabeth from my thoughts, but I changed my mind. I will not do so to please Miss Bingley, however satirical she may be.

In the evening, Elizabeth joined us in the drawing-room. I took care to say no more than a brief, ‘Good evening’, and then I took up a pen and began writing to Georgiana. Elizabeth, I noticed, took up some needlework at the far side of the room.

I had hardly begun my letter, however, when Caroline began to compliment me on the evenness of my handwriting and the length of my letter. I did my best to ignore her, but she was not to be dissuaded and continued to praise me at every turn. Flattery is all very well, but a man may tire of it as soon as curses. I said nothing, however, as I did not wish to offend Bingley.

‘How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!’ Caroline said.

I ignored her.

‘You write uncommonly fast.’

I was unwise enough to retaliate with, ‘You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.’

‘Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.’

‘I have already told her so once, by your desire.’

‘How can you contrive to write so even?’ she asked.

I swallowed my frustration and resumed my silence. A wet evening in the country is one of the worst evils I know, especially in restricted company, and if I replied I feared I would be rude.

‘Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp…’

Pray, whose letter is it? I nearly retorted, but stopped myself just in time.

‘... and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.’

‘Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.’

I saw Elizabeth smile at this, and bury her head in her needlework. She smiles readily, and I am beginning to find it infectious. I was almost tempted to smile myself.

Caroline, however, was not to be quelled.

‘Do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr Darcy?’

‘They are generally long,’ I replied, not being able to avoid answering her question. ‘But whether always charming, it is not for me to determine.’

‘It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill,’ she said.

‘That will not do for a compliment to Darcy,’ broke in Bingley,‘ because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do you not, Darcy?’

‘My style of writing is very different from yours,’ I agreed.

‘My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them, by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents,’ said Bingley.

‘Your humility must disarm reproof,’ said Elizabeth, laying her needlework aside.

‘Nothing is more deceitful than the appearance of humility,’ I said, laughing at Bingley’s comments, but underneath I was conscious of a slight irritation that she was praising him. ‘It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.’

‘And which of the two do you call my little recent piece of modesty?’ asked Bingley.

‘The indirect boast,’ I said with a smile. ‘The power of doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of performance. When you told Mrs Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of compliment to yourself, but I am by no means convinced. If, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, “Bingley, you had better stay till next week,” you would probably do it.’

‘You have only proved by this that Mr Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself,’ said Elizabeth with a laugh.

‘I am exceedingly gratified by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper,’ said Bingley merrily.

I smiled, but I was not so gratified, though why this should be I do not know. I am sure I like Bingley very well, and I am always pleased when other people value him, too.

‘But Darcy would think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could!’ he added.

‘Would Mr Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?’ asked Elizabeth playfully.

‘Upon my word, I cannot explain the matter. Darcy must speak for himself.’

I laid down my quill, all thoughts of my letter forgotten.

‘You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged,’ I said with a smile.

‘To yield readily to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you,’ said Elizabeth.

Despite myself, I was drawn into her banter.

‘To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either,’ I returned.

‘You appear to me, Mr Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection.’

I saw Caroline looking horrified at our exchange, but I was enjoying Elizabeth’s stimulating conversation.

‘Will it not be advisable to arrange the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties before we decide?’ I asked her.

‘By all means,’ cried Bingley. ‘Let us have all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size, for I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do.’

I smiled, but I was offended nonetheless. I feared there was a grain of truth in what Bingley said, and I did not want Elizabeth to know it.

Elizabeth looked as though she would like to laugh, but did not. I hope she is not afraid of me. But no. If she was afraid of me, she would not laugh at me so much!

‘I see your design, Bingley,’ I said, turning his remark aside. ‘You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.’

‘Perhaps I do,’ Bingley admitted.

The liveliness had gone out of the conversation, and an awkwardness prevailed. Elizabeth returned to her needlework, and I returned to my letter. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. I finished my letter and put it aside.

The silence continued.

To break it, I asked the ladies to favour us with some music. Caroline and Louisa sang, and I found my gaze wandering to Elizabeth. She is like no woman I have ever met before. She is not beautiful, and yet I find I would rather look at her face than any other. She is not gracious, and yet her manners please me better than any I have met with. She is not learned, and yet she has an intelligence that makes her a lively debater, and renders her conversation stimulating. It is a long time since I have had to fence with words, indeed I am not sure I have ever done it before, and yet with her I am frequently engaged in a duel of wits.

Caroline began to play a lively Scotch air, and moved by a sudden impulse I said, ‘Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?’

She smiled, but did not answer. I found her silence enigmatic. Is she a sphinx, sent to torment me? She must be, for my thoughts are not usually so poetic.

Instead of disgusting me, however, her silence only inflamed me more, and I repeated my question.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I heard you before; but could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say “Yes”, that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all – and now despise me if you dare.’