A third image of much less appealing nature would obtrude: Georgiana’s ignorance of the place she held in his heart, and the agonising probability that she had, by this very hour, already accepted the eligible Comte. His reperusal had also allowed him to understand that Georgiana had very reasonably concluded that Mary Crawford was to be—or had already been—confirmed as his choice. The Colonel could now add to his present state of affliction, the additional trial of realising that he had foolishly placed himself in the rôle of a distant and insecure lover. This deplorable state of affairs had occurred, perversely, at the time when every possible objection to a marriage between himself and his cousin had been nullified: whilst the Hallendale estates were not so grand as Pemberley, thanks to his step-mother’s endeavours, his estates were now respectable and of such considerable value that there could be no mean imputation he had chosen Georgiana for her fortune; in addition, Georgiana, of all the women in the Kingdom, was fit to be a countess—by birth, person, manners, understanding, accomplishment, and temper—in short, everything! And, the consummate blessing was his reflection that, at least within the last two months, he was convinced that she had been in love with himself.

His reflections now took another turn. He contemplated his long pursuit of Mary Crawford, who, seen now with impartial eyes, was in every respect Georgiana’s inferior. It was true that Mary was uncommonly pretty and could exert herself to have the most engaging of manners in company, but Georgiana was just as lovely to look at, and in a less calculated, more natural way. Georgiana did not have Mary’s gift of speech, but was that not a blessing, when balanced with the more private pursuits of marriage? It was inconceivable to Colonel Fitzwilliam that a woman such as Mary Crawford would be content within the confines of the daily amicability he observed in Lord and Lady Hallendales’ intercourse. His father and step-mother inhabited a sphere of their own fond creation; a universe exactly filled by two, complete and content. Such a picture would not—could not—accommodate the noise and display of a Mary Crawford; but the soft, approving eyes of Georgiana made a vision of another union—equally blessed—a most compelling picture, and one which the repentant Colonel now desired with all his heart.