Page 175 of A Question of Character

His rides through Meryton gradually became less hurried than formerly.

He had not consciously altered his route the first time.

By the third or fourth occasion, honesty required admitting he had.

He was watching Wickham.

Not openly.

He would sooner have confessed to reading sentimental poetry aloud in the assembly rooms.

Still, whenever business carried him through the village, his attention drifted against his will.

One brisk morning he observed Wickham emerging from Mr. Philips’ office carrying a leather folio beneath one arm.

Before he had gone twenty yards, an elderly widow intercepted him.

She produced several folded papers from an overfilled basket and spoke with visible agitation.

Wickham stopped. He accepted the documents, read through them one by one, then pointed to different passages while explaining something patiently enough that the woman began nodding instead of wringing her hands.

When she reached for her purse, Wickham stepped back.

Whatever payment she offered, he declined it with an easy shake of his head.

The widow touched his sleeve gratefully before continuing on her way.

Darcy shifted in the saddle.

Mr. Philips emerged from his office just then.

“You forgot these,” the solicitor called.

A bundle of tied papers changed hands.

They traded several cheerful remarks.

Mr. Philips laughed outright at something Wickham said.

The younger man answered with that familiar smile Darcy remembered from boyhood—the smile which had persuaded masters, servants, and neighbors alike that George Wickham possessed every virtue under heaven.

Darcy urged his horse onward.

Charm had always been Wickham’s greatest talent.

He reminded himself of it more than once before reaching Netherfield.

Another afternoon he passed the mercer’s shop.

Wickham emerged carrying parcels.

The proprietor followed him to the door.

“My regards to Miss Lydia, sir!”

“I shall deliver them.”

“And tell your employer those deeds will be finished tomorrow.”