“Dear William, I do not know. And, pray, let us please not talk about it.”

And so William changed the subject with a laugh. But Fanny was momentarily made grave again by the memory, and the knowledge that she was now being watched by a certain ancient someone, always.

But—what indeed of all those mummies?

And now it must be told. Dear Reader, the mummies, no longer directed by the single powerful mind of their grand pharaoh—for, in that tragic moment of realization that he was no longer loved, he had released his hold of control over himself and over all, which unleashed them full force (while at the same time liberating Lady Bertram from her absurd servitude)—the mummies were now scattered at large!

Indeed, some of them had followed Mr. Rushworth’s wolfish scent the next day to Brighton, where they began a minor unofficial rampage (not generally discussed in the local ton, though a number of young ladies had been accosted at a promenade and a couple of minor assemblies were infested). Others had naturally gone, in the wake of William, among other reasons, to Portsmouth, where they had lumbered about feeding comfortably on the seaside residents and being taken easily for “windblown sailors.” The rest had moved on farther yet, to London! There, of course, the astute Reader can imagine, they simply blended in with the heterogeneous multitude and were hardly noticed at all.

Such was this dire state of matters, of which Fanny had no idea, as she neared Portsmouth with her dear brother.

Fanny’s immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and lamented that his sister’s feelings should be so cold towards his kindest benefactor. But he was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame her, nor distress her by the slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which had passed since their leaving Mansfield. In each letter there had been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.

It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had feared. Miss Crawford’s style of writing, lively and affectionate, was itself a flippant evil, independent of the portions written by her brother. And then, Edmund would never rest till she had read the whole thing to him. Therefore, Fanny had to listen to his admiration of Mary’s language, and the warmth of her attachments.