Instead of Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy replied, “I am aware that a male opinion in this case is neither requested nor required—which I fear is frequently the case. However, I feel it my duty as an husband and a brother to inform you that—before either or both of you are carried away by your raptures over the female fashionables of Paris—at least half the ladies I beheld on our drive through the city have quite ruined any natural beauty through the application of so much paint upon their faces, it is impossible to determine their features, and the other half are so obscured in finery they are become a flock, each one indistinguishable from the others. I cannot believe French men so different from myself in preferring a simple stile of dress that frames a natural beauty as opposed to overwhelming it, and any sensible man surely assumes this camouflage to be concealing some defect—or possibly many. Ladies often mistake fashion and expense for elegance; men, in general, have no idea of the cost of any costume, but the effect of the dress, in setting off the figure and countenance of a lady, her grace, and natural stile will always command more admiration than beauty, artful elegance, or adherence to any particular mode.” Darcy held his hand out to help his wife and his sister safely down, and they felt all happiness walking into L’Hotel, Georgiana on one arm of the tall and elegant Mr. Darcy, and Elizabeth on the other.

Georgiana’s first action was to enquire of the concierge for any letters. Only those who have experienced the cleaving pangs of homesickness can form any idea of the joy with which a person, far away from the fond and familiar sights of his life, hastily retires to the sanctuary of his own room to accomplish the initial perusal—to ensure that everyone and everything he holds most dear is safe and well—and then to indulge himself in countless, leisurely re-readings of the long-anticipated letters from those whose cares and existence are foremost in his thoughts upon the passing of every hour, and every new scene. Such moments of sublime felicity were not to comprise Georgiana’s blessings, however, for upon her enquiry, there was neither to be found Colonel Fitzwilliam, nor even the far less-welcome pleasure of his letter. As she turned away from the tall dais of the concierge, she resolved to keep her disappointment to herself, and spare her brother and sister concern over her dispirits. The altruistic nature of her fortitude was, however, no guarantee of its success, and only with the most dogged determination did Georgiana feign interest and happiness in their amusements and occupations, when she would much rather have sought the solitude of her own apartment to indulge her disappointment.