“The truth is, ma’am,” said Mrs. Grant, ignoring the howling and pretending to whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris, “that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it is so valuable a fruit; and ours is such a remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves, my cook contrives to get them all.”

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden and growl to match Mr. Rushworth, was appeased. And, for a little while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton, while the wolfish baying had settled down. Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar, in particular on moonlit nights.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. “Smith’s place is the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think—Grr!—I shall have Repton.”

“Mr. Rushworth,” said Lady Bertram, “if I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine weather. We are fortunately situated as to resemble the fertile Nile river valley here in Mansfield. Indeed, only last night I thought I saw an ibis standing on one foot, very pretty—”

“I believe that was a goose, mother,” Edmund put in, clearing his throat. No one seemed to pay any note, except for Fanny who lifted a napkin to her lips and pressed very tight.

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and tried to make out something complimentary. But, between his submission to her taste, his growls and grunts, and his having always intended the same himself, with the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was anxious to please, he grew puzzled in his own flow of verbiage, and Edmund was glad to put an end to his speech by a proposal of wine.