Emma

as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite
smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just
what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew
there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He
_had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to
caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun
by refusing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat
sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the
conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little
extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so
obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.

Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human
disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little
disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the
conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very
material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart
than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.

He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had