Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.

“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—­Nobody could have helped it.  It was not so very bad.  I dare say she did not understand me.”

“I assure you she did.  She felt your full meaning.  She has talked of it since.  I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—­ with what candour and generosity.  I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.”

“Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in the world:  but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.”

“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good.  Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner.  Were she your equal in situation—­ but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case.  She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more.  Her situation should secure your compassion.  It was badly done, indeed!  You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her—­and before her niece, too—­and before others, many of whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.—­This is not pleasant to you, Emma—­and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—­I will tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now.”

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in.  He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless.  They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern.  She had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—­then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late.  He had turned away, and the horses were in motion.  She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind.  She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed—­almost beyond what she could conceal.  Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life.  She was most forcibly struck.  The truth of this representation there was no denying.  She felt it at her heart.  How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates!  How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!  And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!