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"First," Mr. Collins began, holding up one finger with tremendous self-importance, "that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances to set the example of matrimony in his parish."

First, the parish required an example. Elizabeth could think of several examples it might profitably be spared.

"Secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness."

Second, he meant to be happy. Her own happiness had not yet been admitted to the discussion.

"And thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier—that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. He put Lady Catherine third? After mentioning he should have listed her first? This man has a death wish.

Mr. Collins, oblivious to her internal commentary, continued with increasing fervor. "Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion on this subject! And it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool—that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for my sake, and for your own. Let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.'"

Lady Catherine had described a useful purchase. Mr. Collins looked at Elizabeth as though he had found it at a very good price.

"Allow me," Mr. Collins said, moving closer, "to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affections!"

"Violence," Elizabeth repeated faintly. "You're threatening me with violent affections."

"Most violent! Most fervent!" Mr. Collins assured her, completely missing her tone.

Elizabeth moved her chair back an inch. Mr. Collins advanced by precisely the same amount.

"Mr. Collins⁠—"

But he was on a roll now. "To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father! The thousand pounds in the four percent, which will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent!"

Did he just... Did he just inventory my dowry during his proposal? Did he just calculate my net worth?

"And you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married!"

Elizabeth felt the narrative pressure building. She was supposed to refuse politely. Then he was supposed to not believe her. Then there was supposed to be a whole comedy of errors where he thought she was being coy.

But Elizabeth was done. She stood up.

"Mr. Collins, I refuse your proposal."

The narrative pushed back. Her legs wobbled. Sit back down, the story demanded. This scene needs to be longer. Elizabeth gripped the chair for support but remained standing. "I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to accept them."

"I am not now to learn," Collins said with a knowing smile, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept when he first applies for their favour!"

Oh, for the love of...

"No," Elizabeth said flatly. "I am not being coy. I genuinely do not want to marry you."

"My dear cousin, your modesty does you credit⁠—"

"I'm not being modest!" The volume surprised even Elizabeth. "I am being honest! The answer is no. Not 'ask me again later.' Not 'convince me.' No."

She tried to walk toward the door. Her feet wouldn't move.

Come on, she thought desperately. I could add an extra sentence during the dance with Darcy, but I can't leave a proposal scene three minutes early?

The narrative pressure was intense. The scene had a prescribed length. A prescribed rhythm. She was supposed to refuse at least three times. He was supposed to persist. It was comedy. Fine. If she couldn't leave, she'd at least be as un-comedic as possible.

"Mr. Collins," she said in the flattest tone she could manage. "I do not like you. I would not be happy married to you. You would not be happy married to me. I am not the proper wife for a clergyman. I am not obedient enough for Lady Catherine. I would make jokes during quadrille and forget to arrange Miss de Bourgh's footstool. I would be a terrible disappointment to everyone, most especially myself. Please accept my refusal and spare us both years of mutual misery."

Mr. Collins blinked. "But... surely you are only saying this to test the strength of my attachment⁠—"