Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.”
“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”
“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse; “and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”—with half a sigh and half a smile at her.
“I never saw any gentleman’s hand-writing”—Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speak his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in Yorkshire; --that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.—Now for it.”
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”
“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small—wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”
This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted strength—it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?” No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.
“If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my writing desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.—Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?”