In March, London was always very dull; those who had not been in town at that season were astonished at the change in a few months, and so looked forward to the future, in the hope it would not always be so, lest they be required to devise their own means to pass time. With little to do but a continuation of the previous months’ synthetic industry, there was yet scarcely anyone worthy of being seen or any place of fresh interest to attend. Private dinner engagements comprised the corpus of the de Bourgh’s activities, either at-home or abroad, but not one assembly was yet to be ventured upon. Lady Catherine contrived to be away from home almost every night, but such enforced employment is only slightly preferable to—or possibly less agreeable—than staying in. It was not always possible to give dinner parties and choose the company (although town was still so depopulated that one could imagine to fair certainty whom one would meet each evening); Anne and her mother would go wherever they could secure an invitation against each other’s company.

At every gathering, the ladies all complained about the lack of ton at this season, graciously offending the other ladies present, before the weak after-thought, “Present company excepted, of course,” and the gentlemen spoke of nothing but politics to other men. Amidst the meagre supply of aspirants in March, spending evenings in this manner ensured that the participants had fair claim to the title of ton, and, more importantly, had some reason to appear fatigued and dull, and could augment their conversations the next morning with a great many yawns, “Lady M———said…,” and “Lord W———looked dreadful! The opposition to his bill is a great trial for his nerves. I assure you, I have never seen him in such ill-health.” “I heard that Mrs. D———actually called on Lady R———at half-five, just to return her call made by mistake, and not wishing to be uncivil!”