Austen Said:

"And pray, may I ask? —”

“Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style? — for I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”

“You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”

“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?”

“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and now we are better.”

“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister,

I find,

from our uncle and aunt,

that

“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”

“And what did she say?”

“Certainly,”

“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”

“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”

“And do you like her?”

“I have heard,

indeed,

that

When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”

“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”

“I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place! — Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect.”

“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine — but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”

“You have. Yes, there was something in that; I told you so from the first, you may remember.”

“You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.”

his dear sister Elizabeth,

“How long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?”

“Three and twenty!”

“Five and twenty if it is an inch.”

“I know it must be five and twenty,” said he, “by the time we have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.”

“Ten o’clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your life?”

“Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only three and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you can.”

“Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse cannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term: ‘Ah! Thorpe,’ said he, ‘do you happen to want such a little thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.’ ‘Oh! D—,' said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’ And how much do you think he did, Miss Morland?”

said he,

‘Oh! D—,' said I; ‘I am your man; what do you ask?’

“Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as new, or better.

He asked

I closed with him directly, threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.”

“Neither one nor t’other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash.”

“Oh! D— it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend, I hate to be pitiful.”

“You will find, however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day; Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the time.”

“My horse! Oh, d — it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are you fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?”

“I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day.”

“I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow.”

“Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense; nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon. No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day while I am here.”

“Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown tomorrow; mind, I am engaged.”

“A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you.”

“Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to do.”

“Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t’other day; but as for all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation.”

“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them.”

“No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about, she who married the French emigrant.”