They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party.  Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time.  Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback.  Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse.  Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.  Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there was deficiency.  There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over.  They separated too much into parties.  The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.  And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better.  It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied.  Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.

At first it was downright dulness to Emma.  She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid.  He said nothing worth hearing—­ looked without seeing—­admired without intelligence—­listened without knowing what she said.  While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.

When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.  Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.  To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—­and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe.  “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively.”  They were laying themselves open to that very phrase—­and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another.  Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected.  She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart.  She still intended him for her friend.