Elizabeth.
[Starting in indignation.] Sir!
Darcy.
Oh, understand me, I beg of you! For yourself alone my admiration is only too natural. I share it with everyone who has the happiness of knowing you. But—pardon me—for it pains me to offend you—the defects of your nearest relations, the total lack of propriety so frequently betrayed by your family, has so opposed my judgment to my inclination, that it has required the utmost force of passion on my part to put them aside. But, my dear Miss Bennet, your triumph is complete. Your own loveliness stands out the fairer in its contrast to your surroundings, and I now hope that the strength of my love may have its reward in your acceptance of my hand.
Elizabeth.
[Who has gone through all sorts of emotions during this speech, speaks, in a constrained manner as if trying to control herself.] Mr. Darcy—in such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. If I could feel gratitude I would now thank you. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.
Darcy.
[Leaning against the mantel-piece, hears her words with no less resentment than surprise. After a little he speaks in a voice of forced calmness.] And that is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting? I might perhaps wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.
Elizabeth.
I might as well inquire why, with so evident a design of insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, your reason, and even against your character! Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?