The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the finest verbal nuance, he could always select the best scenes and speeches. And whether it was dignity, pride, tenderness, or remorse, he could express it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic.

His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again—perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no discomfort of seeing him with Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention. He was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, how it fell from her hand while she sat motionless over it. And at last, Edmund saw how the eyes which had appeared so studiously to avoid Henry throughout the day were turned and fixed on Crawford—fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction drew Crawford’s upon her, and the book was closed, and the charm was broken.

Then she was shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend. As he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny’s secret feelings too.

“That play must be a favourite with you,” said Edmund; “you read as if you knew it well.”

“It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,” replied Crawford; “but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman’s constitution.”

“No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,” said Edmund, “from one’s earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare. But to read him well aloud is no everyday talent.”

“Sir, you do me honour,” was Crawford’s answer, with a bow of mock gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; that must content them.

Lady Bertram’s admiration was expressed, and strongly too. “It was really like being at a play,” said she. “I wish Sir Thomas had been here.”

Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her languor, could feel this, imagine what her niece, alive and enlightened, must feel!

“You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,” said her ladyship soon afterwards.

A great actor indeed, thought Fanny. He acts even now, a fine subtle role. If he but knew what might touch my heart—being genuine. But it is the one role he has not mastered.