Carefully resuming his burthen of the dirty sack, the three walked along Berkeley Street, and then turned westward toward Hyde Park. When Colonel Fitzwilliam next spoke, it was in the voice of a man whose happiness was complete. “I have been on tenter-hooks waiting for you to arrive home. I had convinced myself that you would indubitably prefer the eligible Comte—his pretentions and prospects are far superior to my own—and would return having engaged your heart elsewhere. I should deserve nothing less, as we both know. I must learn to be happy in the face of my own undeserved good fortune.”

“The Comte is a man of honour and liberality, and one to whom I feel most obliged for his kindness, but there was no danger of his engaging my heart. I believe that my brother and sister took me abroad with the purpose of widening my circle of acquaintance, and, with some good fortune, making my introduction to someone I might esteem as an husband; but they did not apprehend that the only man I could ever love was often right at their door. It has not, though, been a wasted journey, for it is not impossible that my absence taught you to love me. But—Colonel Fitzwilliam—you must tell me of the particulars of your time with Miss Crawford. I have been certain from your letters that you had renewed your attachment to her, and were shortly to make her an offer.”

“I will do so, but only if you will agree to call me neither ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam,’ ‘Viscount,’ or by any other title other than that of ‘Husband,’ or ‘George.’ Do you agree?” Georgiana’s eyes and the glow in her smile spoke her agreement to his entire satisfaction. The particulars that Colonel Fitzwilliam then related to Georgiana regarding Mary Crawford were known to no-one but himself and Mr. Gardiner; not even Mr. Darcy knew of her infamy, or the Colonel’s acquaintance with her. “I must add, to your certain surmise, that my honoured father and step-mother know nothing of the circumstances I am now—with the greatest imaginable shame—to relate to you.