“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him out. There

is something very pompous in his style. And what can he mean by

apologizing for being next in the entail? We cannot suppose he would

help it, if he could. Can he be a sensible man, sir?”
“No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of{82} finding him quite the

reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his

letter which promises well. I am impatient to see him.”
“In point of composition,” said Mary, “his letter does not seem

defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I

think it is well expressed.”
To Catherine and Lydia neither the letter nor its writer were in any

degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should

come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had

received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for

their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done away much of her ill-will,

and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which

astonished her husband and daughters.
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great

politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the

ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need

of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall,

heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and

stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated

before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of

daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this

instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not

doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This

gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.

Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,—