“Why is it that whatever you speak of always comes down to flames?” noted Fanny, growing once more calm, and secure in her own thoughts. “A candle need never be lit at both ends. Simply chuse one and let oneself be properly used up by the flames of righteous living. I chuse duty. And if not that, I chuse not to be lit at all.”

“A greatest pity ever voiced,” replied Eastwind, “for your glorious candle to remain cold and unused, in darkness—unconsumed. Is it not better to chuse desire, and shine for all the world to see? Thus, at least, one burns with a bright joyful flame before the final end comes—indeed, an end that need never come. . . .”

“What joy is there, in knowing that one’s candle could have been used to light someone’s true way instead of selfishly illuminating the world only for oneself? For, Desire ignorant of Duty is a cold joyless thing. I would much rather be unlit and lie in eternal darkness, than to be spent for only my own cause; brief, never-to-be-satiated, inherently alone, ever regretting a better way.”

And saying this, Fanny turned away, and attempted to ignore Lord Eastwind and his own—burning, as she suddenly came to realize—unrelenting, burning gaze. His was the sun scorching an ancient desert. . . .

Edmund continued to reproach Maria. “I am sorry, but in this matter it is you who are to lead. You must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy and decorum are.”

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria. And with far more good-humour she answered, “I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, but I still think you see things too strongly. And I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. There would be the greatest indecorum, I think.”

“Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough; the wise will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought.”

“Do not act anything improper, here in England, or in the Nile Valley, my dear,” said Lady Bertram. “Sir Thomas would not like it.—Indeed, what does the great Pharaoh think? Fanny, ring the bell; His Ancient Lordship and I must have our, that is, my dinner.—To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time.”

“I am convinced, madam,” said Edmund, preventing Fanny, and ignoring the greater part of his mother’s utterances, “that Sir Thomas would not like it.”

“There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?”