impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”
“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.—“Good God!— Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.”
“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—
“ Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?—I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”
“Upon my word, Emma—”
“Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be broke to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”
“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley.”
Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
“I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being broke to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you—it concerns only myself—that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money