“That has been a good deal the case, my dear, but not to the degree you mention.  Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November.  Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season.”

“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly, except—­”

“Ah, my poor, dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season.  Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.  It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there;—­so far off!—­and the air so bad!”

“No, indeed, we are not at all in a bad air.  Our part of London is so very superior to most others.  You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir.  The neighborhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest.  We are so very airy!  I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town; there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in:  but we are so remarkably airy!  Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favorable as to air.”

“Ah, my dear, it is not like Hartfield.  You make the best of it—­but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same.  Now, I cannot say that I think you are any of you looking well at present.”

“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous headaches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual from their journey and the happiness of coming.  I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me that he did not believe he had ever sent us off, altogether, in such good case.  I trust at least that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety toward her husband.

“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you.  I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.”

“What is the matter, sir?  Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.

“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well; but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued.  I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.”

“My dear Isabella,” exclaimed he hastily, “pray do not concern yourself about my looks.  Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose.”

“I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,” cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham’s intending to have a bailiff from Scotland to look after his new estate.  But will it answer?  Will not the old prejudice be too strong?”