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"My brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking
of poor Richard."

"Poor dear fellow!" continued Mrs Musgrove; "he was grown so steady,
and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care!
Ah! it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you.
I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you."

There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this speech,
a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome mouth,
which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove's kind wishes,
as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get rid of him;
but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to be detected
by any who understood him less than herself; in another moment
he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly afterwards
coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were sitting,
took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with her,
in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy
and natural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all
that was real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings.

They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had
most readily made room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove.
It was no insignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs Musgrove was of
a comfortable, substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature
to express good cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment;
and while the agitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face,
may be considered as very completely screened, Captain Wentworth
should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which
he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son,
whom alive nobody had cared for.

Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions.
A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction,
as the most graceful set of limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair,
there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain--
which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will seize.

The Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room
with his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife,
now came up to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation
of what he might be interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts,
began with--

"If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick,
you would have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson
and her daughters."

"Should I? I am glad I was not a week later then."

The Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. He defended himself;
though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies
on board a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit,
which a few hours might comprehend.

"But, if I know myself," said he, "this is from no want of gallantry
towards them. It is rather from feeling how impossible it is,

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