They found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and Anne had the kindest welcome from each.  Henrietta was exactly in that state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before at all; and Mrs Musgrove’s real affection had been won by her usefulness when they were in distress.  It was a heartiness, and a warmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at home.  She was entreated to give them as much of her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or rather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally fell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on Charles’s leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Musgrove’s history of Louisa, and to Henrietta’s of herself, giving opinions on business, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts; from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the entrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.

A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected.  A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene.  One five minutes brought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an hour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled:  a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove, and Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth.  The appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment.  It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together again.  Their last meeting had been most important in opening his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had hastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed.  He did not seem to want to be near enough for conversation.

She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried to dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:—­ “Surely, if there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other ere long.  We are not boy and girl, to be captiously irritable, misled by every moment’s inadvertence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness.”  And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if their being in company with each other, under their present circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind.

“Anne,” cried Mary, still at her window, “there is Mrs Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her.  I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now.  They seemed deep in talk.  Who is it?  Come, and tell me.  Good heavens!  I recollect.  It is Mr Elliot himself.”