Page 104 of A Question of Character

Elizabeth watched Lydia seize Mrs. Long’s elder niece by the hand and tow her toward two bashful gentlemen near the wall.

“She is matchmaking,” Elizabeth said.

Jane followed her gaze and smiled. “How very industrious.”

“Wickham’s absence has made her useful. We must inform him.”

“If you do, she will never forgive you.”

“I am willing to risk it.”

Lydia entered some minutes later, cheeks bright and eyes full of purpose. “Mary is dancing.”

“That is a great achievement,” Elizabeth said.

“I know. I told Mr. Ellis she reads improving books and would make him a very rational partner.”

“Mary must have been delighted.”

“She did not hear me.”

“Lydia.”

“What? It worked.”

Before Elizabeth could answer, a ripple moved through the room. Heads twisted toward the entrance. Conversation grew oddly uneven, then sharpened into whispers.

Mrs. Bennet caught Jane by the wrist. “They are here.”

“Do not rush forward, Mama,” Jane murmured.

“I was not going to rush.”

“You had begun leaning.”

Mrs. Bennet drew herself up with wounded dignity. “I am perfectly capable of waiting to be introduced.”

Elizabeth barely heard them.

Mr. Bingley entered first, fair-haired, pleasant-faced, and already smiling as though Meryton had done him a great favor by assembling. Beside him came a gentleman Elizabeth did not know, likely Mr. Hurst, whose interest in the room seemed unlikely to outlast supper. Two ladies followed, both fashionably dressed, one with the elegant ease of a married woman accustomed to comfort, the other strikingly handsome and sharply attentive.

Then Darcy entered.

Elizabeth’s fingers closed around her fan.

He looked tired—wearier than she had remembered him in London. His face bore the same grave dignity, his coat the same excellent tailoring, his manner the same command of self. Still, there was a restraint about him that did not belong to ordinary reserve. He held himself like a man prepared to endure a trial in public.

The handsome lady’s hand rested on his arm.

Elizabeth opened her fan.

Charlotte Lucas appeared at her shoulder with the speed and silence of a woman in possession of intelligence.

“The fair gentleman is Mr. Bingley,” Charlotte whispered. “The stout one is Mr. Hurst. His wife is the elder sister, Mrs. Hurst, and the other is Miss Bingley. She has been admiring the room with the expression of a person who means to find fault and is disappointed by abundance.”

Elizabeth’s mouth twitched. “And Mr. Darcy?”

“Oh, you know Mr. Darcy?”