Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined silence obliged her to relate her brother’s situation. Her voice was animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had been on. But she could not mention the number of years that he had been absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an early promotion.

“Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain?” said Edmund; “Captain Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?”

“Among admirals, large enough; but,” with an air of grandeur, “we know very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort of men, but they do not belong to us. Of various admirals I could tell you a great deal—their flags, the gradation of their pay, their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my home at my uncle’s brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of Rears and Vices I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat.”

Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, “It is a noble profession.”

“Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make the fortune, and if there be discretion in spending it. But in short, it is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form to me.”

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect of hearing her play.

Lady Bertram came out of her doze to hear the end of it and exclaimed “A harp! The divine and dulcet instrument of the Pharaohs!”

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under consideration among the others. Mrs. Grant could not help addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia Bertram.

“My dear Henry, have you nothing to say? You have been an improver yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as it used to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fall of ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again!”

“Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,” was his answer; “but I fear there would be some disappointment: you would not find it equal to your present ideas. In extent, it is a mere nothing; and, as for improvement, there was very little for me to do—too little: I should like to have been busy much longer.”

“You are fond of the sort of thing?” said Julia.