He was conscious of a curious dual feeling, as if he had two natures, the one persuading the other against its will. He almost believed that his short sharp fever was at an end, and encouraged the pleasure he took in Millie’s society as offering proof of returning reason. It was true that the sight of the girl, the sound of her voice, now and again recalled some incisive remark of Anne’s. He recollected, for instance, that she had called her “an embodied conscience,” but the remembrance was free from disturbance. Once, however, quite unreasonably, for the talk was of a lately written book, a vision of Anne, radiant as the morning, standing between walls of rye in the rocky little path at Haare, flashed upon him, and for the moment he saw nothing else. It cost him a wrench to come back, and he turned almost eagerly to Millie. Metaphorically, she was the shield to present between himself and distracting memories. Fanny was neglected, and smiled.
“Talk, talk,” she said to herself, “for the more you get below the surface, the better you will appreciate her. But if I thought Miss Dalrymple was a rival, I should try to crush poor Millie’s incipient liking.”
She was uneasy, but there was nothing for it but to keep on the watch for the blowing of straws. And her other side engaged one ear. Mr Elliot was talking, and talking coherently, to Mrs Ravenhill. Fanny caught a sentence and smiled.
“Sense, thank heaven!” she went on. “Why on earth can’t he keep to it?”
She was forced, presently, into closer contact. Mrs Ravenhill became a little annoyed at having the stranger so persistently thrown on her hands; dinner, and Fanny’s near neighbourhood, gave her an opportunity for insisting upon her sharing in the conversation.
“You did not tell me, Fanny,” she said, “that Mr Elliot was so near a neighbour of yours at Thorpe.”
“It is difficult to believe it, at times,” said Fanny demurely. She flung him a glance through her long lashes, under which he became incoherent.
“Not—not near enough, and the road is de—delightfully muddy,” he stammered.
“Delightfully, when you are in search of an excuse! I did not know that men were so afraid of mud. No, no, Mrs Ravenhill, if you want to know the truth, it is that one must be a pauper to be worthy of Mr Elliot’s friendship. With parish pay and a craving for grocery tickets, you might hope to be the object of his warm regard, but other people are not even believed to possess souls.”
Mrs Ravenhill was surprised. The words jested, but there was a sting at their back unlike Lady Fanny, who never wilfully hurt.