“Her not objecting does not justify him. It only shows her being

deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.{193}”
“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. He shall be

mercenary, and she shall be foolish.”
“No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose. I should be sorry, you know,

to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”
“Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in

Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not

much better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven! I am going to-morrow

where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has

neither manners nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones

worth knowing, after all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the

unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in

a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
“We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.

Gardiner; “but perhaps, to the Lakes.”
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her

acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear

aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You give me

fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men

to rocks and mountains? Oh, what hours of transport we shall spend! And

when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers, without

being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We will know where

we have gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains,

and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when

we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling

about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less

insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.{194}”

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