“The French must regard us both as superlatively stupid, having nothing at all emanating from our heads; the profusion of fruit, feathers, or indeed entire branches of vegetation springing forth surely bespeaks a surplus of thoughts which cannot be contained entirely within the cranium. A few paltry blooms—and small ones at that!—can surely bespeak no excess of imagination, or even intelligence!” laughed Elizabeth gaily. “However, it is time to go, and I am sure that there is nothing to be done about it now. We might abuse the concierge for our want of proper adornment, but even I would scruple to put about such a falsehood, as he did get exactly what we asked. However, we need not fret: I noticed, other than our friend, the Comte, Mr. Darcy was much the tallest man we have seen, so we are safe, after all.” Georgiana smiled at her brother, and they went down-stairs together to meet their coach.

As Georgiana stepped down from the carriage at the entrance to ——, the assembly room for the evening ball, she was greeted by a brace of handsomely liveried and attentive footmen. A large number of guests were mingling outside in the crisp evening air before their announcement, and thousands of candles and soft gas-lamps cast a flattering luminescence upon the beauty of the house and its impatient visitors. The overall effect was magical; accustomed as she was to the company of good society in England, there was, she felt, a splendour unique to Paris and an éclat about Parisians that defied imitation. The family drew a number of appreciative glances as they left their coach and made their way to the entrance, and those who had not yet seen the famille de trois Anglais, sublimissimes et possédants whispered and pointed, reminding Elizabeth of the night she first met Mr. Darcy, and the agitation the mere sight of him had created amongst the good people of Meryton.