She is evidently displeased; looks up, and seeing herself watched, blushes deeply. She says, “I did not know that proper names were allowed,” and pushes away the letters with even an angry spirit. She turns to her aunt as a signal that it is time to leave.
Mr. Knightley thinks he sees another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and swept away by her unexamined. She is looking for her shawl afterwards, and Frank Churchill is searching also for it. It is growing dusk, the room is in confusion, and Mr. Knightley cannot tell how they part.
Mr. Knightley remains behind the others, to give Emma a warning. He asks her what is the peculiar sting of the last word given to her and Miss Fairfax? Why is it entertaining to the one, and distressing to the other?
Emma looks disconcerted. It is only a joke among themselves, she says.
The joke, he observes, gravely, seems confined to her and Mr. Churchill.
Mr. Knightley has not done. He tries, though disappointed by her silence, and painfully impressed with the conviction of her attachment to young Churchill, to furnish her with another hint. Is she perfectly acquainted with the degree of intimacy between the gentleman and lady they have been speaking of?
Perfectly, Emma tells him, with conviction.
Has she never received any reason to think he admired her, or she admired him.
Never, for the twentieth part of a moment. How could such an idea come into his head?
He has imagined he has seen something of attachment—looks which he did not believe were meant for the public.