“I do not know,” said Fanny hesitatingly. “Yes; I had not particularly expected it.”

“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general way all young men do.”

“He did not, the last time he went to see Mr. Owen.”

“He finds that house more agreeable now. He is a—very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London. I expect Henry every day, and there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Though, is not there a something between compliments and—and love—to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have? But compliments must suffice. Was his letter a long one?”

“I only heard a part of the letter. It was to my uncle, very short, but a few lines. His friend had pressed him to stay longer, and he had agreed.”

“Oh! if he wrote to his father; no wonder he was concise. If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. How many Miss Owens are there?”

“Three grown up.”

“Are they musical?”

“I do not at all know. I never heard.”

“That is the first question, you know,” said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay[25] and unconcerned, “which every woman who is musical herself asks about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies—for one knows, without being told: they are all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing.”

“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.

“Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself.”

Fanny felt obliged to speak. “You cannot doubt,” said she. “You will be very much missed by many.”

“Even by you, knowing in full what I am?”

Fanny smiled sadly.

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, “Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away—a difference felt. But I am not fishing; don’t compliment me. If I am missed, I may be found—by those who want to see me.”

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed. For in her perverse, conflicted depths of darkness she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded again.