“I do,” he said. “They are very good company, when one wishes to be improved.”
Lydia made a face; Elizabeth, whose eyes had been alive to every turn of his speech, and who had noted the quiet intelligence behind his measured words, exchanged one rapid glance with Jane that meant he is serious—but not foolish.
Mrs. Bennet, discovering that the young man neither stared, nor blundered, nor spoke nonsense, began at once to regard him with a sort of cautious satisfaction, like a person who has feared a draught and finds only a mild breeze—her initial reservations melting into tentative approval.
“You must be quite hungry, both of you,” she declared, recovering her footing in the familiar world of feeding and managing, with a decisive wave toward the dining room. “We shall have dinner directly. Hill!—pray send word to the cook that dinner must be punctual; we are not to have things cold today.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Bennet, as the party moved toward the drawing-room, “I have reason to believe dinner will be punctual, whether she is told or not.”
Mrs. Bennet looked as if she would have answered sharply, but she remembered herself before a guest, pressing her lips together briefly, and only murmured, “You are always laughing at everybody, Mr. Bennet.”
“I try to laugh at nobody,” he replied, “but I cannot always succeed.”
Dinner that evening, though conducted with no more than the usual ceremony of a country family, had in it that quiet novelty which makes even plain dishes appear better than usual, the table bright with its familiar china and the air scented with roasted mutton and summer herbs. William sat opposite Mrs. Bennet, between Mary and Kitty—an arrangement which Mrs. Bennet would not have chosen had she consulted her own taste for consequence, but which Mr. Bennet had contrived with an air of innocence that defied complaint, his eyes twinkling faintly as he took his place at the head.
For a time the conversation fell, as it often did, into the safe channels of roads, weather, and the tolerable condition of the country; yet even in those trifles William spoke with a neat exactness that pleased Mr. Bennet, drawing from him an occasional nod of quiet approbation, and with a respectful attention that pleased Mrs. Bennet still more.
“You find Hertfordshire very quiet, I suppose?” said Mrs. Bennet, watching him closely, fork poised as if ready to pounce on any misstep, as if a single wrong word would prove him unfit for society.
“It is quiet,” he answered, “but I do not think quiet must always mean dull. There is a certain comfort in regularity.”
“That is what I have always said,” Mary observed, delighted to find herself supported, straightening in her chair with evident self-importance.
Lydia, who had been picking at her bread with increasing impatience, broke in. “Do you ever play any tricks, cousin? Kitty says boys are always playing tricks.”
William’s fork paused. Mr. Bennet’s eyes, over the rim of his glass, began to sparkle with anticipatory mischief.
“A trick?” repeated William, as if consulting his conscience for the proper definition, his brow furrowing slightly in thoughtful consideration. “I am afraid that I am not skillful at such things, Miss Lydia.”
“Oh, then you must learn,” cried Lydia, with the authority of nine years and no doubts. “Papa knows tricks.”
“Papa knows everything,” said Elizabeth, smiling with affectionate irony.
“My dear Lizzy,” returned Mr. Bennet, “I know at least when I am being set up, and I perceive that I am to be called upon to entertain the company with sleight-of-hand.”
Mrs. Bennet looked alarmed. “Mr. Bennet! You will not make yourself ridiculous.”
“I have never needed assistance,” he replied.
William, however, after a moment’s thought, during which he glanced about the table with quiet assessment, looked towards Kitty, whose hair had escaped its ribbon and fallen a little untidily about her ear, and said with a seriousness that made the thing infinitely funnier than if he had grinned—
“If I may be permitted, Miss Catherine—” and, as Kitty stared at him, wide-eyed and blushing faintly, he lifted his hand, made one large quiet movement, and produced from behind her ear a small copper coin.
Kitty gave a shriek of astonishment and clapped both hands to her head.
Lydia bounced in her chair. “He stole it!” she cried. “He stole it out of her ear!”
“I assure you I did not, Missie,” William said, still grave, though a gentle warmth now softened his features, “for I should have heard your sister complain.”
Even Jane laughed then, though she tried to hide it behind her napkin with her customary gentleness. Mrs. Bennet, after one instant of alarm at the notion of theft, melted into delighted amazement, her hands pressing together in spontaneous applause.
“Well!” she exclaimed. “Upon my word!—that is quite astonishing! I never saw anything like it—never in my life. Mr. Collins, you are quite an entertainer.”
Mr. Bennet looked at his cousin with mild approval, the corners of his mouth lifting in rare open satisfaction. “You see,” he observed, “how easily you may acquire a reputation in this family. Produce a coin, and you are a conjurer; produce a compliment, and you will be a hero.”
Mary, however, could not allow amusement to reign uncorrected. “It is a frivolous talent,” she said, with a prim shake of her head, “though I do not deny it may be used to innocent ends.”
“To the ends of peace,” said William, “I shall endeavor to use it, Miss Mary.”
