Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny
could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he
was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure
on Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first
familiar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the
consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of
affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;
and recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther
attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left
to Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's
disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those
feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she had;
for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not
help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were
necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving
his addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying
them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit
quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford,
was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of
it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of
what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was
in every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her
penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the
dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's only
support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as
possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no
solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden
attack.