up at Marianne with no
very benignant expression.

"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might
introduce another subject.

"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.
The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and
thank Heaven! you are what you always were!"

She paused--no one spoke.

"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take
care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we
shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to
accept the charge."

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even
himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace
it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied,
and soon talked of something else.

"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so
wretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which
cannot be said now."

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her
finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her
being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in
private.

"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?"

"I was engaged elsewhere."

"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"

"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have
no mind to keep them, little as well as great."

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the
sting; for she calmly replied--

"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe
he _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most
scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however
it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful
of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of
being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will
say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must
be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem,
must submit to my open commendation."

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened
to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
audit