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Chapter X

The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs.

Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of

the morning with the invalid, who continued, though

slowly, to mend; and, in the evening, Elizabeth joined their

party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did

not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley,

seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter,

and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his

sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and

Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently

amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his

companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either

on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the

length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which

her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and

were exactly in unison with her opinion of each.

'How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a

letter!'

He made no answer.

'You write uncommonly fast.'

'You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.'

'How many letters you must have occasion to write in the

course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I

should think them!'

'It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of

to yours.'

'Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.'

'I have already told her so once, by your desire.'

'I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it

for you. I mend pens remarkably well.'

'Thank you -- but I always mend my own.'

'How can you contrive to write so even?'

He was silent.

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