“Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking

of.{119}”
“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have

interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for

themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success,

and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
“Books—oh no!—I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same

feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be

no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
“No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of

something else.”
“The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said he,

with a look of doubt.
“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said; for her

thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared

by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,

that you hardly ever forgave;—that your resentment, once created, was

unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being

created?”
“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
“I hope not.”
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,

to be secure of judging properly at first.”
“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she, endeavouring

to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”
“And what is your success?{120}”
She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different

accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
“I can readily believe,” answered he, gravely, “that reports may vary

greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were

not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to

fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”