On second thought, I fear the parting of the sea may have been due to a certain person’s haughty scowl. Really, I must remember to smile more. It is a grievous disadvantage such an unnatural expression causes facial muscle fatigue. Then again, I suppose it is my own fault, because I do not take the trouble of practicing. Fondly I recall Elizabeth teasing me in Kent with a similar admonishment. Pleasant remembrances of her banter never fail to educe good humour. Although I may not be of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth, I am suddenly smiling without any effort whatsoever. In the event she is looking in this direction, I force the smile to remain in place as we press on toward the entrance.

OOF! The forced smile is wiped from my face. “For God’s sake, Bingley! Could you not provide adequate warning when you are about to halt so abruptly?”

Rooted to the spot like an inconvenient tree, my dizzy-eyed, tickle-brained friend heaves a lovesick sigh. He has this rather nauseating habit of metamorphosing into either a tree or a mooncalf in the presence of the eldest Bennet sister.

“Look at her, Darcy! I swear, by the beauty of Venus, Miss Bennet has grown even more lovely; and she was already the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. Have you ever seen such …”

Bingley’s praise will, undoubtedly, continue ad nauseum once he has begun to laud the lady’s disposition and comeliness. I once made the clay-brained pronouncement that Jane Bennet smiles too much. Good God! Honestly, at times I do not even want to admit that I know Fitzwilliam Darcy let alone that I inhabit the man’s skin. How, in the name of all that is good and holy, can anyone smile too much? One thing is certain; no one shall ever say the same about me.

One of my supposed motives for being in Hertfordshire is observation of the woman. There is no need. If Elizabeth believes her elder sister cares deeply for Bingley, further convincing is not required. Had I demanded proof, the look on her face now would be confirmation enough.