their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear.

Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching

the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by

messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and

Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in

attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual

commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness

of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern

with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was

exactly in unison with her opinion of each.{61}
“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
He made no answer.
“You write uncommonly fast.”
“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a

year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.”
“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend

pens remarkably well.”
“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent.
“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp,

and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful

little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss

Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At

present I have not room to do them justice.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you

always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me

to determine.”