Her admirer winds up his accolades in a predictable manner. “ … a veritable angel!”

Behind my friend’s back I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, yes. I see your angel. I daresay she looks much the same as ever.”

Bingley’s paragon of virtue is unarguably fair enough, but where is my angel? Angel? Hah! Elizabeth Bennet is certainly no angel. I swear that irreverent mouth of hers was, on several occasions, possessed by demons … and what I wouldn’t give to exorcise those impish lips.

Why can I not yet see her? Where is she? Has she not come? Perhaps her lithe frame is merely obstructed from this angle. Please, Lord, let Elizabeth be behind her parents; and I will promise to more faithfully regulate my use of explicit expletives and insolent insults.

Oh, bloody hell. What if she has heard of my spur-galled return and decided to remain at home rather than face me here? Pig-widgeon that I am, I will indubitably hie off to Longbourn, ostensibly to determine her state of health, and blurt something asinine. God save me from myself.

We step up and present ourselves to the principal inhabitants of the village of Longbourn. Although I am in no humour for conversation with anyone but Elizabeth, gentlemen that we are, Bingley and I first swap civil whiskers with Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. The cold politeness of the woman’s address to me, in contrast to the degree of civility extended to my friend, is understandable. Yet I cannot resist the thought that I am the person to whom the family is indebted for the preservation of Lydia’s reputation from irremediable infamy. Such ill-applied smugness is unworthy, and I really should attend the conversation.