Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. “This is beyond me,” said he. “This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections—”

He paused and eyed her fixedly. He tried to think in vain of any minutiae of that ball, if anything untoward had occurred between her and some other gentleman there present. (He could recall nothing now, of course, but the mayhem). He saw her lips formed into a no, though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That, however, in so modest a girl, might be only innocence. And chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, “No, no, I know that is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there is nothing more to be said.”

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself against further questioning. She would rather die than own the truth (and what was truth, indeed? Which dear beloved pair of eyes?); and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond betraying it.

“Mr. Crawford recommends himself to me by wishing to marry so early,” said Sir Thomas, beginning again, with composure, “I am an advocate for early marriages, where every young man with a sufficient income should settle as soon after four-and-twenty as he can. Indeed, I am sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son is to marry early.” Here was a glance at Fanny. “Now, Edmund, I consider as much more likely to marry early than his brother. He, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he could love. Am I right? Do you agree with me, my dear?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was gently said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the score of the cousins. But Fanny’s continued unexplained reaction fueled his displeasure. He got up and walked about the room with a frown, while Fanny dared not lift up her eyes. Shortly afterwards, he said in a voice of authority, “Have you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford’s temper?”

“No, sir.”

She longed to add, “But of his principles I have.” But her heart sunk under the appalling prospect of explaining it all. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on observations, which, for her cousins’ sake, she could scarcely dare mention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford’s misconduct, that she could not give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying them. She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle—so discerning, honourable, good—the simple acknowledgment of settled dislike on her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not.