Mrs. Bennet glowed. “You are very kind, Mr. Collins. We are only plain country people, but we make do.”
Elizabeth traded a look with Jane, who lowered her eyes quickly to her plate to hide a smile.
Mr. Collins, apparently encouraged, pressed on with renewed solemnity. “Indeed, I make it a point in my ministry to commend frugality and domestic order. Such virtues are, I find, often neglected in the households of the idle rich—though of course Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself sets an example of generosity combined with prudent management that I can only attempt, in my humble way, to emulate.”
Mary perked up. “Lady Catherine is your patroness, sir?”
“Indeed!” Mr. Collins’s chest swelled. “She has been most condescending in her attentions. She has even, on occasion, deigned to advise me on the arrangement of my parsonage furniture. It is remarkable how a woman of such consequence can possess so much understanding of domestic detail.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. Across from her, Mr. Bennet did not so much as blink, but his eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.
Sophocles chose this moment to enter the room, padding across the rug with all the dignity of a magistrate about to pass sentence. He paused beside Mr. Collins’s chair and sat, tail curled neatly, ears twitching once.
Mr. Collins, noticing him at last, stiffened.
“Ah,” he said. “The—ah—cat.”
Elizabeth’s voice was mild. “Sophocles likes to observe our guests.”
“I see,” said Mr. Collins uneasily. “I suppose—I trust he is harmless?”
Sophocles blinked once. Then, with pointed slowness, he turned away from Mr. Collins entirely, rising to leap onto the empty chair beside Elizabeth and curling up with a disdainful flick of his tail.
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “I imagine he has delivered his opinion.”
Elizabeth smiled down into her plate.
Mary, attempting to rescue the conversation, asked about Mr. Collins’s sermons, which produced a fifteen-minute discourse on the virtues of extemporaneous prayer versus prepared homilies, complete with quotations.
Kitty and Lydia lost interest at once, and began whispering about officers under their breath.
Mrs. Bennet made several sharp hushing sounds that only made them giggle harder.
Mr. Bennet listened with grave politeness, inserting only the occasional and devastating question: “You find prepared sermons preferable, then? I see. But spontaneous prayer has its charms, does it not?”
Mr. Collins grew more flustered with each answer, especially when Mary nodded earnestly at his every word.
Sophocles, untroubled, settled his head on Elizabeth’s arm and purred.
Elizabeth stroked his fur absently. She was too well-bred to yawn but felt the weight of the evening pressing heavily.
Finally, when the servants cleared the last of the pudding, Mrs. Bennet insisted on tea in the parlour.
Elizabeth rose, smoothing her gown, with Sophocles jumping lightly to the floor to follow.
In the drawing room, Mr. Collins resumed his lecture on Lady Catherine’s great condescension, describing in detail the number of chimneys at Rosings Park, the height of the windows, and the splendour of the glazing.
Elizabeth tried to listen. Truly she did. But her gaze drifted to Sophocles, who sat at her feet now, tail flicking with unmistakable judgment each time Mr. Collins mentioned “her ladyship.”
When he praised Lady Catherine for instructing him on the placement of shelves, Sophocles actually rose, stretched, and walked away altogether, vanishing behind the sofa as if he could bear it no longer.
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, and they both dissolved into silent, helpless laughter, half-hidden behind their cups.
Mrs. Bennet, oblivious, was nodding along vigorously.
Mr. Bennet watched his daughters, eyes crinkled, but said nothing.
And so the evening wore on, Mr. Collins oblivious to everything but his own importance, Mrs. Bennet glowing with plans, and Elizabeth reminded with every flick of Sophocles’s tail that some judgments were beyond argument.
