“Ah,” replied the Comte in a tone of mock seriousness, “you English are always trés sérieux, and do not know how to behave around people of such evident taste and refinement!” he continued, motioning with his head at the men by the looking-glasses. “I am sorry, in truth, to have you meet with such a collection of—er—how do you say en anglais, ‘fops?’ ‘puppies?’ You must have received a very bad idea of the men of Paris in just the time it took you to cross the room!”

Mr. Darcy bowed and gracefully replied, “Monsieur le Comte, do you not find that men are men everywhere? Were we all the same, it would be the ruination of all of the tailors, wig-makers, and perfumeries dans le monde entier, non? And, certainly no man of business could wish for such a catastrophe.”

“Please, Monseiur d’Arcy, call me Estrouville, as I believe is the custom in your country, and I will call you Mr. Darcy, for the same reason.”

“You are half correct, Estrouville, as I am sure you well know. Just ‘Darcy’ will do for me, thank you. Now, if we have finished with these interminable formalities, may we get to the subject of our last letters?”

“Darcy, you will be the death of our hostess and half of the good people in this room if we are perceived to be speaking here of farming, and I fear it will only be worse if we are heard to be discussing the uses of steam in that context. We will both be quickly relegated to the class of merchant-men, and no-one of any standing in the room will venture across a divide that my title and all of your consequence—nay, even, the charms of the two fair ladies who entered with you, but, to my deep disappointment, are as yet unknown to me—will surmount!”

“C’est une faute énorme, et je vous prie de me pardonner,” replied Darcy with a smile. “Pray, excuse my incivility—I will return in a moment with Mrs. and Miss Darcy, my wife and sister.” Darcy bowed and walked to where Elizabeth and Georgiana were conversing with several older ladies, seated in the centre of the room on an enormous circular banquette.