“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time.  It was not the gipsies—­it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant.  No! (with some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—­ of Mr. Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room.  That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth.”

“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—­ most deplorable mistake!—­What is to be done?”

“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me?  At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now—­it is possible—­”

She paused a few moments.  Emma could not speak.

“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body.  You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other.  But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—­that if—­ strange as it may appear—.  But you know they were your own words, that more wonderful things had happened, matches of greater disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—­ and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—­ if Mr. Knightley should really—­if he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way.  But you are too good for that, I am sure.”

Harriet was standing at one of the windows.  Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,

“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your affection?”

“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—­“I must say that I have.”

Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes.  A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart.  A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.  She touched—­ she admitted—­she acknowledged the whole truth.  Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill?  Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a return?  It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!