Willoughby’s society soon became Marianne’s most exquisite enjoyment.  The mutual attachment was obvious—­amusingly obvious.  They read, they talked, they sang, they danced, they drove together, and they even agreed in depreciating Colonel Brandon as “the kind of man whom everybody spoke well of and nobody cared about; whom all were delighted to see, and nobody remembered to talk to.”  Then, after cutting off a lock of Marianne’s hair, after offering her a horse, and after showing her over the house which would eventually be his on the death of Mrs. Smith, the elderly relative on whom he was partially dependent, the young lover suddenly took leave of the family, having said not a word to Mrs. Dashwood of an engagement, and having offered no other explanation of his hasty departure than the flimsy pretext of being sent by his relative on business to London.

Willoughby left for London a few days after Colonel Brandon had also been unexpectedly summoned to the same place, and he expressed no hope of any rapid return into Devonshire.  On such an occasion Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she not given way to all her feelings; and for some days she courted misery and indulged in tears, in solitude, and in sleeplessness.  But she was soon set a better example by Elinor, who did her utmost to remain cheerful under the depression of heart caused by a visit paid to the family about this same time by Edward Ferrars.  He was obviously uneasy, low-spirited and reserved, said he had already been a fortnight in Devonshire stopping with some friends at Plymouth, and, after a week’s stay with the Dashwoods, left them, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.  But Elinor and Marianne were not long allowed leisure to be miserable.  Sir John’s and Mrs. Jennings’ active zeal in the cause of society soon procured them some other new acquaintance to see and observe.  One of these couples was Lady Middleton’s brother-in-law and younger sister, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer.  It was impossible for anyone to be more thoroughly good-natured or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer.  The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain, and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.  “Mr. Palmer is so droll,” she used to say in a whisper to Elinor; “he is always out of humour.”  One day, at dinner, his wife said to him, with her usual laugh, “My love, you contradict everybody.  Do you know that you are quite rude?” To which he replied, “I did not know I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill-bred.”  But the good-natured old lady was in no wise affronted, “Ay; you may abuse me as much as you please,” she said.  “You have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.  So there I have the whip-hand of you.”