Emma

“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,”
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps, than
he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
subject.”

“Emma, my dear Emma—”

“Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your brother
does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,
and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from
doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the
advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish
I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion
towards oppressed worth can go no farther.”

“Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily convinced
as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give,
to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you
notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly
by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of
the kind.”

“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some
thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly