The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gay spirits[23] when they first danced together, but her gaiety rather sank than raised his comfort. And afterwards (for he found himself still impelled to seek her again), she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging.

They had talked, and they had been silent. He had reasoned, she had ridiculed. They parted at last with mutual vexation.

And, if Edmund had but paid better attention as he walked away, he might have seen Miss Crawford gift him a terrible dark look.

Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end. Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

“Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner’s fan as if for life, “how soon she is knocked up[24]! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?”

“So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; “it is three o’clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours.”

“Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me.”

“Oh! William.”

“What! Did she think of being up before you set off?”

“Oh! yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; “I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning.”

“You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?”

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious “Well, well!” which was permission.

“Yes, half-past nine,” said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, “and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for me.” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from.”