His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing him if possible. She resolved to remain upstairs during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent for. And as Mrs. Norris was still rampaging near and around the house (observed now by at least two regular servants, upon Sir Thomas’s express orders to maintain general control and have no repeat of any untoward incident even remotely resembling the circumstances of that ball), there seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in agitation, listening, trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment. But no footsteps approached the East room. She grew gradually composed, able to hope that Mr. Crawford would go without involving her.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable. Suddenly the sound of a heavy approaching step was heard; unusual in that part of the house: it was her uncle’s. She knew it as well as his voice. She had trembled at it as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject.

It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room returned, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in French and English, and—as Lady Bertram once insisted—in elementary hieroglyphics.

She was all attention: placed a chair for him, tried to appear honoured. In agitation, she overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he said, with much surprise, “Why have you no fire to-day?”

There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She hesitated.

“I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.”

“But you have a fire in general?”

“No, sir.”

“How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. Here is some great misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to sit without a fire. You are not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.”

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying something in which the words “my aunt Norris” were distinguishable.