A regiment of militia wintered in Meryton, and with it came Mr Wickham, who had a fine face, a soft voice, and an easy address. He told Elizabeth that he had grown up at Pemberley, that old Mr Darcy had promised him a living in the church, and that the son had cruelly refused to give it. Elizabeth believed every word, because the story agreed with everything she already thought. She did not ask why a stranger should tell a private wrong to a lady he had met an hour before. Her sister Jane begged her to suppose some mistake on both sides. Elizabeth laughed at her. There are few people whom I really love, she said, and still fewer of whom I think well.