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Elizabeth sat beside her. "I know she is frightened. I am frightened too. But I cannot marry Mr. Collins merely to make her fears less painful."

Jane took her hand. "Then you must not."

That night Elizabeth found Mary sitting upon the stairs with her sewing basket, unable to bring herself to enter the drawing room while Mr. Collins held forth upon the correct arrangement of shelves in a rectory. Kitty and Lydia had escaped to their room, and Jane was occupied with Mrs. Bennet's accounts.

"Do you think Mr. Collins is a clever man?" Mary asked when Elizabeth sat beside her.

"I think he is very certain that he is," Elizabeth answered. "There is a difference, but I should not care to explain it to him."

Mary fingered the edge of her work. "He speaks very respectfully of Lady Catherine. One ought to respect one's benefactors."

"Certainly. Yet I should prefer to hear what Mr. Collins thinks when Lady Catherine is not available to think for him."

"Perhaps he has simply never been encouraged to give his own opinions," Mary said. "Papa gave you the liberty of answering him and sometimes laughed when I tried."

Elizabeth studied her cousin. The remark carried no resentment, but it did contain a sadness she recognized from the weeks after their father's death. "You might surprise Mr. Collins," she said. "He seems to value serious-minded conversation."

Mary considered this without enthusiasm. "He asked me whether I could play music suitable for Lady Catherine's parlour. I told him I had never seen the room and could not answer with confidence. He said my modesty did me credit."

Elizabeth laughed in spite of herself. "There, Mary. You have already discovered the surest way to win his approval: make a perfectly sensible remark that he can misunderstand as praise of himself."

They sat together a little longer. Elizabeth did not suggest that Mary ought to marry Mr. Collins in her place. She knew too well how painful it was to have one's future discussed as a convenience to other people. She would not do that to her cousin, even in jest.

Below them, Collins began another account of the excellence of Rosings Park, and Mary rose with a sigh. "I suppose I ought to go down," she said. "Mama will be displeased if we are absent."

"I shall come with you," Elizabeth answered. "We may defend one another against the potatoes."

The proposal occurred two mornings later. Mrs. Bennet informed Elizabeth that Mr. Collins wished to speak with her privately in the little parlour. Elizabeth protested that she had no desire for a private conversation, but Mrs. Bennet was already pushing the door closed.

Collins stood beside the fireplace with his hands folded before him. He waited until Elizabeth had taken a chair, then cleared his throat with impressive ceremony.

"My dear cousin," he began, "the obligations of my position have long directed my thoughts toward matrimony. Lady Catherine herself has urged me to marry, and I am persuaded that the time has come to select a suitable companion."

Elizabeth was tempted to suggest that Lady Catherine might be pleased to select the companion herself. She restrained the impulse.

"I believe, sir, that marriage is a serious undertaking," she answered.

"Indeed. I have considered it in every particular. A clergyman ought to set an example in his parish, and a wife of modest habits would greatly enhance the comfort of my establishment. Furthermore, I am sensible that the future possession of Longbourn creates certain delicate considerations."

He paused, apparently expecting Elizabeth to express admiration for his sensitivity.

"I cannot imagine that my opinion is required," she replied carefully.

"On the contrary! I have determined that a union with one of my cousins would reconcile every interest. As Miss Bennet is the eldest daughter, I was inclined initially to offer her the honour of my addresses. Your aunt, however, informed me of her prospects and suggested that you might be more suitable. Your situation, though unfortunate, has prepared you to value the protection of an established gentleman."

Elizabeth felt her face warm. She could not decide which offended her more, his complacency or the discovery that her aunt had openly discussed her dependence.

"Mr. Collins," she interrupted, "I must prevent you from proceeding under a misapprehension. I cannot accept an offer of marriage from you."

He blinked. Then he smiled in a manner intended to be indulgent.

"Ah! The customary modesty of a young lady. I was prepared for it."

"It is not customary modesty. I am declining your proposal."

"Young ladies frequently refuse the gentlemen they intend to accept."

"Then those young ladies and I differ considerably."