Austen Said:

"If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.

"Mr. Rushworth,"

"if I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine weather."

"Yes, indeed, Edmund,"

"I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again."

"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait."

"She has got it,"

"she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time."

"I was afraid it would be too much for her,"

"but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home."

"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again."

"I am afraid it was, indeed,"

"I am very much afraid she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me."

"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny."

"To be sure not, but I cannot do without her."

"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection."

"What is the matter?"

"I was not asleep."

"Do not act anything improper, my dear,"

"Sir Thomas would not like it.—Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.—To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time."

"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"

"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should be delighted: it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, I mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? you have never told me."

"But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?"—

he would rather wait for tea.

"Still the same anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,"

"But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea."

"How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting."

"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"

"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."

"I come from your theatre,"

"I found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room—but in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit."

"On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?"

"My indulgence shall be given, sir,"

"but without any other rehearsal."

"I come home to be happy and indulgent."

"Mr. and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"

"I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do not feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such weight."

"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have been."

"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish."

"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?"

"How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"

"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny."

"To be sure, so I shall."

"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her."

"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."

"Sir Thomas, stop a moment— I have something to say to you."

"I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner."

"Well,"

"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"

"She will be late,"