Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see her displeasure, and not to hear it. Rather—she did hear it, but as undifferentiated grisly sound effects and not actual words that required acknowledgement.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a prosperous beauty all her life; and beauty and wealth—and until recently, Egyptology—were all that excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. Fanny was very pretty, and she would be advantageously married, realized Lady Bertram. And it made her peculiarly proud of her niece.

“Well, Fanny,” said she, with extraordinary animation; “I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just speak of it once, I told Sir Thomas, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece.” And looking at her complacently, she added, “Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!”

Fanny coloured. “My dear aunt, you cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me, should not you?”

“No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer comes your way. I could do very well without you, if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. It is every young woman’s duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this.”

This was probably the only piece of advice which Fanny had ever received from her aunt. It silenced her.

But Lady Bertram was quite talkative.

“I will tell you what, Fanny,” said she, “I am sure he fell in love with you at that ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening—No, not that mischief! Well, you know what I mean. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening. Or—no, maybe I ought not to mention that evening—” And still pursuing the same cheerful muddled thoughts, she soon afterwards added, “And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time pug has a litter you shall have a puppy. Unless—might you prefer a mummified baboon? We do have plenty left over, but thankfully Sir Thomas does not know—”

Chapter XXXIV

At this point it is likely the observant Reader wonders—whatever happened to the hordes of terrifying mummies that had seemingly disappeared without a trace, at the end of Fanny’s debut ball? Their crates were violently disposed of; their various implements swept away. What remains of the unholy menace?