“And now that I have begun,” Mary continued, “my letter will not be worth your reading, for there will be no little offering of love at the end from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for Henry is in Norfolk. Business called him to Everingham ten days ago. But there he is, and his absence accounts for any remissness of his sister’s in writing. There has been no ‘Well, Mary, is not it time for you to write to Fanny?’ to spur me on. At last, I have seen your cousins, ‘dear Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth’; they found me at home yesterday. We seemed very glad to see each other, and I do really think we were a little. We had a vast deal to say. Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned? I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession, but she had not quite enough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken of. There was no recovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke of ‘Fanny’—spoke of her as a sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth’s day of good looks will come; we have cards for her first party on the 28th. Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it was Lady Lascelle’s, and prefer it to almost any I know in London. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied. As I have no desire to tease her, I shall never force your name upon her again. Meanwhile, Baron Wildenheim’s attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know if he has serious encouragement. She ought to do better. A poor honourable is no catch; take away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing. If his rents were but equal to his rants! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties. There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a young one. Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in reply to gladden Henry’s eyes, when he comes back, and send me an account of all the dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake.”

There was great food for chiefly unpleasant meditation in this letter. And yet, it connected her, told her of people and things about whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now. Fanny would have been glad of such a letter every week. Her correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher interest.