In fact, she was utterly confused, in most ways in denial of what has happened, and refusing to remember any of it—for the moment. When Fanny attempted to talk to her—she must talk to somebody of the ball at least, if not its aftermath—her aunt had seen so little of what had passed. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody’s dress or anybody’s place at supper but her own. “She could not recollect what it was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest young man in the room—somebody had whispered something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.” And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications, not a word of Egypt or the mayhem that occurred toward the latter part of the night. The rest was only a languid “Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see that; I should not know one from the other.” This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris’s sharp answers would have been—but she was home, suffering the aftereffects of a certain monthly affliction.

The evening was heavy like the day. “I cannot think what is the matter with me,” said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. “I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid. Fetch the papyrus—no!”

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bedtime; the servants quietly cleaning up, and Sir Thomas reading to himself.

Fanny thought and thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, terror and revelation, in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and heartbreak, and broken shards of ancient clay pottery, traces of sand, and all but solitude.

A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity of talking with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, raising the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind to a sort of calm.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known, and he was gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this was to be endured.

Edmund.

He would soon be always gone.