How was Emma to bear the change?  She was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude.  She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.  He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.  The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (as Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for, having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.

Emma’s sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and it was quite three months before Christmas, that would bring the next visit from Isabella, her husband, and children.

Highbury, the large and populous village to which her house, Hartfield, really belonged, afforded her no equals.  The Woodhouses were first in consequence there.  All looked up to them; but there was not one of her acquaintances among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day.  It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke from his usual after-dinner sleep, and made it necessary to be cheerful.  His spirits required support.  He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of everybody he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.  Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable to him; and he was not yet reconciled to his own daughter marrying, nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor, too.

He was pitying “poor Miss Taylor,” and magnifying the half-mile’s distance that separated Hartfield from Mr. Weston’s place, Randalls, when a visitor walked in.  This was Mr. George Knightley, the elder brother of Isabella’s husband, and the owner of Donwell Abbey, the large estate of the district.  He was a sensible man, about seven or eight and thirty, a very old and intimate friend of the family, and a frequent and always welcome visitor.  He had returned to a late dinner after some days’ absence in London, and had walked up to Hartfield to say that all was well with their relatives in Brunswick Square.  They talked of the wedding.  Emma congratulated herself on having made the match.  Mr. Knightley demurred to this, remarking:  “A straightforward, open-hearted man, like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman, like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns.”  And when Emma, in reply to entreaties from her father to make no more matches, answered, “Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton—­you like Mr. Elton, papa; I must look about for a wife for him”—­her old friend gave her the salutary advice:  “Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken; but leave him to choose his own wife.  Depend upon it, a man of six or seven and twenty can take care of himself.”