TILL Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in

vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a

doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of

meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that

might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than

usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all

that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than

might be won in the course of the evening. But in an{114} instant arose the

dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted, for Mr. Darcy’s

pleasure, in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this

was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was

pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and

who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business

the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant

smile,—
“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if

he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.”
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by

Elizabeth; and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for

Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling

of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate

disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to

the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.

Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She

was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away

with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in

speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect

of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her