“But what am I to say when they have answered?”

Darcy had supposed the question settled. He had recommended asking whether they were fond of music, a subject upon which his sister might reasonably be expected to have something to say. Georgiana, however, seemed to consider a reply only the beginning of her difficulties.

She sat beside the drawing room fire with a list of subjects upon her knee, written in her own hand and corrected here and there in Mrs. Annesley’s. It had grown by two since they had dined. It was Thursday evening; the party were expected the following morning. Rooms had been prepared, instructions given, and the number of persons likely to require dinner established beyond reasonable dispute. Darcy had come upstairs believing there could be little left to arrange.

“Their answers will suggest something.”

“They may only say that they are.”

“Then you may ask what they like to hear.”

“And they will ask me to play it.”

Mrs. Annesley, whose work lay upon the other side of the hearth, secured her needle before speaking.

“You need not provide the whole conversation, Miss Darcy.”

“I should like to provide some of it.”

There was nothing unreasonable in that wish. Darcy took the chair opposite his sister, and found the assistance he had meant to give her less readily available now that she had stated what it was to do.

“You know most of our guests already.”

“That is why I wish to do it well.”

“I have not been uneasy all day,” she said. “Only since dinner.”

“There is no cause to be uneasy now.”

“I was not, until I began to think what I should say.”

He knew the difficulty too well to dismiss it, though he would have preferred to recognize it in somebody less nearly related to himself. In company he could generally find a useful question, a proper observation, some small duty which required attention. Georgiana wished to enjoy herself.

She looked down at her list, and then at him, with the particular diffidence which had always preceded her boldest requests.

“Would you be the company? Only while I try the questions. I cannot tell how they will sound until somebody answers them.”

Darcy had been asked to be a great many things for his sister’s sake. He had not before been asked to be a whole party of guests. He looked toward Mrs. Annesley, who drew her thread through and offered no objection to the scheme.

“Whom am I to be first?”

“Mr. Bingley.”

She consulted the list, though the question stood first upon it and could not have escaped her. “Are you fond of music, Mr. Bingley?”

“Very,” said Darcy.

Georgiana waited. It became evident that she was waiting for Mr. Bingley, and that Mr. Bingley would have said more.

“I am fond of all music,” Darcy amended, “and particularly of whatever I heard last.”

“That is very like him.”

“And then,” said Mrs. Annesley, without raising her eyes from her work, “he will ask you to play it.”

Georgiana turned to her brother as though he had said it himself. “You see how it is.”

Mrs. Annesley folded her work. There were some small matters to be seen to before the morning, and she would leave Miss Darcy to her brother, if he could spare the evening. Darcy assured her that he could. When she had gone, Georgiana smoothed the list upon her knee.

“Mr. Bingley will require very little assistance,” Darcy said.

Georgiana smiled. “I was not afraid of Mr. Bingley himself.” She read the next name. “Miss Bennet.”

Darcy made no attempt at Miss Bennet.

“Miss Bennet will be glad to speak with you of music.”

“I hope so. She liked the second song at the theater very much.”

“Your chief concern, then, must be Mr. Bennet. You have not met him.”

“Miss Elizabeth says he likes books.” She held the list nearer the candle, as though Mr. Bennet might be discovered there. “Will you be him?”

“I have very little to go upon.”

“You have as much as I have.” She composed herself. “Are you fond of music, sir?”

“I like libraries better than most journeys. Whether I like them enough to endure the journey first is another question.”

Georgiana raised her head.

Darcy had been looking at the paper in her hand. He had no particular interest in it; it was merely there, and gave him somewhere to direct his attention while he regretted the ease with which the sentence had come.

“That was what she said,” Georgiana observed.

“I believe so.”

“I had forgotten the last part.” Then she laughed. “And it is no answer to my question at all.”

“I doubt Mr. Bennet will give you one.”

He could have shortened it. The substance would have served perfectly well without the turn of the words, or the recollection of Elizabeth glancing toward her uncle when the proposed escort had left her with so little room to object. He had remembered the expression too, though there was no necessity to tell Georgiana that.

“Her father has accepted,” he said. “We may hope the library will justify him.”

“I shall be glad to show it to him.”

She returned to the list. The next name had been written with rather more care than the others, and she read it without looking up.

“Miss Bingley.”

Darcy did not answer at once. Georgiana waited with her question ready, plainly resolved to ask it properly whatever came of it.

“Miss Bingley,” he said at last, “will not require you to provide the conversation.”

Georgiana laughed before she could prevent it, then pressed her fingers to her lips and looked toward the door by which Mrs. Annesley had gone.

“I ought not to laugh. She has always been very kind to me.”

“She has.”

It was not a lesson Mrs. Annesley would have set her. But a girl who had spent the evening dreading silence might do worse than learn that some guests would never permit one.

Georgiana was not finished.

“Do you think Miss Elizabeth will wish to see the library first?”

“You may ask her.”

“I know I may ask. I only wished to have something she might like to do, in case she should not care for music. It would be dull to offer nothing else.”

The distinction was familiar enough. He had been making it to himself for several days, with no better success than she could expect of him now. A house offered a great many things for a guest’s comfort, and no assurance that any of them would give pleasure to the particular guest who mattered most.

“She reads a good deal.”

“I lent her a book at our dinner. Did I tell you?”

He had not known it. The ladies had been alone before the gentlemen came in, and Georgiana had evidently found a use for those minutes which required neither his knowledge nor his assistance.

“Which book?”

“The essays. Mrs. Annesley gave them to me to read.” She colored a little. “There is one upon conversation. It says that a person who speaks little is generally wiser than one who speaks a great deal, and ought to be thought so until he proves otherwise.”

He knew the little volume by sight, though he could not have furnished much of its contents. It had lain for some time upon her worktable in London. He found the author’s opinion of silent men very sensible, and knew exactly how much of it Elizabeth would leave standing.

“She said she would have opinions about it,” Georgiana added. “She was very kind.”

“Then you have something to speak of.”

“Unless she has disliked it.”

“That need not prevent her.” His sister laughed, and he added, “She would take care not to hurt you.”

Georgiana considered this. “I do not want her to praise it merely because I lent it. Mrs. Annesley and I have talked of it already; I should like to hear what somebody else thinks, even if she does not agree with us.”

He understood the wish. It was one of the more inconvenient attractions of Elizabeth’s company that agreement could never be taken for granted, and that, once obtained, it was worth remembering. He had been afforded little enough of it. Yet at the theater, while a battlement was being turned into a forest path, they had spoken of nothing more consequential than a painted tower. She had distrusted it for altering its character so readily; he had pleaded that it had had a very unsettled evening. He could have recalled every foolish word of that conversation while forgetting much wiser things said to him since.

“Then ask her,” he said. “You may find you wish to defend it; but you need not decide before she has spoken.”

He waited while she thought about it.

“That sounds much easier,” she said at last.

Had the conversation ended there, he might have retained a very tolerable opinion of his own assistance.

“Then you must be Miss Elizabeth,” she said, “and I will ask her about the book.”

“No.”

“You were Mr. Bennet.”

“I should not do her justice.”

“Then I shall try her myself.” Georgiana sat a little straighter, as though Elizabeth’s manner might be put on with the posture. “I shall tell you what I think of it, and not what you wish to hear, for I am always less useful—” She faltered, and gave up the character for the report. “She said she was less useful when her opinion was arranged for her.”

“When her opinion had been arranged beforehand.”

The correction was unnecessary. He knew it before his sister’s hand stopped upon the paper.

“You remember that too.”

“She said it to our cousin.”

“I remember who she said it to.”

There was no impertinence in Georgiana’s manner. She had made a discovery, and had not yet determined whether it might be enjoyed without unkindness. Darcy found himself wishing that she would enjoy it and finish with it.

“You were speaking to Mrs. Gardiner,” she said.

“Not beyond hearing.”

“No. I see that.”

She smiled then, openly, and he let her.

“Have I been of any assistance?” he asked.

“You have made me less afraid of forgetting what she says.”

“I would recommend attending to her yourself.”

“I mean to.” Georgiana folded the list. “I am very glad she is coming.”

There was nothing he need add to that. His sister ran her thumb along the fold and kept the paper in her hand. When she spoke again, the amusement had gone, though not the ease it had brought her.

“I hope she will be glad too.”

Darcy had heard the visit arranged on her behalf, had watched her receive its particulars with no sign of pleasure, had gone away from Gracechurch Street without a word he could reasonably construe as encouragement. To wish that she would like his house was safe enough. He could wish it of any guest. The thought of her looking forward to coming had to be approached with more care.

“You have given her reason to be,” he said.

“I have done very little.”

“You have been kind to her sister.”

“Miss Bennet makes it easy.”

He turned toward the hearth. Miss Bennet’s gentleness had made a great many things easy for people who had not deserved the advantage. Here, at least, it had met with something better than his judgment. Georgiana had liked her without needing to establish whether she ought to be liked, and Elizabeth had been grateful for it.

His sister rose to put the list away.

“Mrs. Annesley thinks I shall be easier when they are here. I suppose I keep imagining the same silence, and trying a different subject every time.”

“You will have all the company to assist you.”

“I would rather you were in the room.”

He had been considering horses, servants, the hour of arrival, the Lambton road, and the particular inconvenience of weather which could be neither ordered nor disregarded. It was a relief to be asked for something he could give without consulting anybody else.

“I shall be there.”

Georgiana went to the pianoforte, where the music for their first evenings had already been put in order. She took up the first piece, considered it, and laid it aside. Darcy waited. The second was one he knew; she had played it often in London, though seldom before company.

“Would this do?” she asked.

“Very well.”

“It is not difficult.”

“Must it be?”

She smoothed the music upon the desk and sat down. A place had been left beside the instrument for the person who turned her pages. In London it had generally been Mrs. Annesley’s; once the house was full somebody else might offer, or Georgiana might find courage to ask. He thought of Elizabeth in it, turning the leaves at his sister’s nod. The place stayed empty. He wished tonight at an end, and the morning come.

Then Georgiana tried the opening, quietly, stopped, and turned toward him.

“Will you listen once? Before they come.”

Darcy brought his chair nearer.

“From the beginning,” he said.

She began again, with more confidence, and he took the place beside her to turn the pages.