“Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely⁠—“Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of⁠— Mr. Knightley?”

“To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of anybody else⁠—and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible.”

“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had named Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.”

“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”