Darcy asked if he might postpone the interview with the Comte until the day following the next so as appear less uncivil; they had agreed to stay some days, and such a precipitate departure must justly cause offense. Georgiana saw that he was perfectly right; she had no wish to be unkind to anyone, and such a delay could not be material. She was sanguine, also, that her brother had long wished to inspect the Comte’s plantations; surely, it was selfish of her to put such an opportunity out of his power, now that they were actually at Belle Aire—he asked for so very little in the way of accommodating his own pleasures and was for-ever solicitous of her own comfort and happiness. In short, Georgiana could not refuse her brother such a trifling delay, and they parted with the agreement that he would speak as soon as he found the proper occasion.

As soon as Darcy left the room, Georgiana allowed herself to sink down onto the chair in front of the dressing table, staring at her own reflection and trying to keep herself from shaking. Her brother was doing what he saw as his duty, she reflected over and over again; he could not know how cruelly his words had wounded her, when he accused her as never having thought of love. At some length, she again could be mistress over the tumult in her heart and her head, and determined that no-one should perceive her dread of being in the Comte’s presence, in his house, at his table, and worst of all, in his heart. She took no pleasure in his suit, and, even less—if such a thing were possible—in his certain disappointment. “Oh!” thought Georgiana. “Would to Heaven that I could wish myself back at Pemberley, in my own rooms with Mademoiselle Blanche, with my books and my music. How content I would be for-ever, and never wish to stir beyond the village!”