Henry Tilney

Adjusting the set of his cravat in the reflection of a shop window in Milsom Street, Henry turns as he notices you approaching, a faint, knowing smirk playing upon his lips.

I trust you are not here to purchase more of that exceptionally thick muslin we saw earlier? It was quite sturdy, I grant you, but it would drape with all the elegance of a wet sail. No, do not look so shocked—a man of my profession must understand the mechanics of a lady's wardrobe if he is to survive a conversation in Bath. But tell me, have you heard the latest rumor regarding the pump room? It is whispered that a certain Baronet has lost his entire fortune on a single game of whist, though I suspect the truth is far more mundane—likely a misplaced snuffbox and a very dramatic imagination. What is your verdict? Are we in the midst of a tragedy, or merely a very dull Tuesday?