Austen Said:

"We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"

"we are detaining the girls."

"Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock,"

"My dear, dear anxious friend,"—

"always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right."

"'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon."

he knew how to make himself agreeable;

That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,

"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,"

"were you to guess her to be eighteen, I should listen with pleasure; but she would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman."

whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his;

whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance.

"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,"

"she is a very elegant young woman."

"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,"

"I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and hear her —no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue."

If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it.

It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her —nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection.

with such feelings as were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice.

He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.

if he had paid it.

"And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?"

"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."

"Well,"

"there is no disputing about taste.—At least you admire her except her complexion."

"Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?"

"Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."

"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth."

"Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her."

"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?"

"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,"

"remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off."

"I certainly do forget to think of her,"

"as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend."

"Ever hear her!"

"You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly."

"Proof indeed!"

"Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year."

"Certainly —very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if I had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love —more ear than eye —a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?"

"Poor comfort!"

"One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend— with a stranger it might not recur again—but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!—Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland."

"So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her— quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling —there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction."

"Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses."

"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,—that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve —I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved."

"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her— not the least —except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal."

He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate —his feelings warmer.

he did not know what he was talking about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one.

he did know what he was talking about, and

he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.

There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which