Page 89 of Threads that Remain

By the time they returned to Berkeley Square, the house was properly awake.

Marianne was in the morning room with Anne, talking about the coming assemblies; Edward was reading the newspaper near the fire; and Ned, who had acquired the peculiar habit of appearing in doorways precisely when a person most wished him elsewhere, was leaning against the frame with a book held upside down.

He looked at Sarah. Then at Henry. Then at Elinor. Then back at Sarah. “Good morning,” said he.

“Good morning, Ned,” said Henry.

“Did you have a pleasant walk?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

“Ned,” his mother stated firmly.

“I only asked.”

“And I have answered.”

He smiled.

Edward lowered his newspaper. “Ned, if you have nothing useful to say, you might allow your sister to remove her bonnet without conducting an inquiry into her morning.”

“I was only asking where they had been,” he answered innocently.

“Piccadilly,” said Sarah.

Ned looked at Henry. “Did you walk to Piccadilly?”

“Yes.”

“Across the Park?”

“Yes.”

“And back?”

“Yes.”

Ned nodded thoughtfully. “That is a remarkably indirect route.”

There was a silence.

Marianne looked up.

Anne stopped examining the ribbon.

Edward folded his newspaper.

Elinor removed her gloves.

Henry, to his credit, remained perfectly composed.

Sarah did not. “Ned, go away.”

“I was going to.”

“You are still here.”