Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed. And, as always in her interactions with Miss Crawford, the feel of a cross—this time, dear William’s cross!—around her neck was suddenly a double blessing.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, laughing, “I must suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you by the way.”

Fanny was confused, discontent. Yet Miss Crawford wondered why she did not smile. In that moment she thought Fanny odd, over-anxious; thought her anything rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry’s attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening; but Henry’s attentions had very little to do with it. She would much rather not have been asked by him again so very soon. She hoped his inquiries of Mrs. Norris about the supper hour were not for the sake of securing her at that part of the evening.

But it was not to be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all. Though, she could not say it was unpleasantly done, or there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner. And sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not disagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit.

But still his attentions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself. She was happy in knowing herself admired. And she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after, that her indefinite engagement with him was in continual perspective.

She was happy even when the two dances did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with whom it could find repose.

“I am worn out with civility,” said he. “I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.”

Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. His weariness, arising probably from the feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was to be respected. Thus, they went down their two dances together with such sober calm as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son.