“I am come to walk with you, Fanny,” said he. “Shall I?” Drawing her arm within his. “It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk together.”

She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low. It was quiet all about, with Mrs. Norris decidedly not out foraging the wilderness at the moment. Fanny was glad of the additional privacy (though one could never be certain if, in her heightened state, Mrs. Norris was cognizant of anything but the vermin).

“But, Fanny,” he presently added, “in order to have a comfortable walk, something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. You must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?”

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, “If you hear of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell.”

“Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. I do not mean to press you, however. I had thought it might be a relief.”

“I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in talking of what I feel.”

“Do you suppose that we think differently? Our opinions are as much alike as ever. But—I consider Crawford’s proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his affection. If you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?”

“Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This is such a comfort!”

“This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love?”

“My uncle thought me wrong—”

“Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be sorry, I may be surprised—but I think you perfectly right. You did not love him; nothing could have justified your accepting him.”

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

“So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here. Crawford may still hope and persevere.”

“Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.” And she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund. She blushed when she saw his look.

“Never, Fanny? So very determined and positive! This is unlike your rational self.”

“I mean,” she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, “that I think I never shall—”