"I don't know; unless it be its extreme quiet, or some early association."
"And who is your nearest neighbour?"
"Mr. Aubrey, the curate. It is so unlucky, he is gone from home for a short time. You can't think how kind and pleasant he is,—the most amiable old man in the world; just such a man as Bernardin St. Pierre would have loved to describe."
"Agreeable, no doubt, but dull—good curates generally are."
"Dull? not the least; cheerful even to playfulness, and full of information. He has been so good to me about books; indeed, I have learned a great deal from him."
"I dare say he is an admirable judge of sermons."
"But Mr. Aubrey is not severe," persisted Evelyn, earnestly; "he is very fond of Italian literature, for instance; we are reading Tasso together."
"Oh! pity he is old—I think you said he was old. Perhaps there is a son, the image of the sire?"
"Oh, no," said Evelyn, laughing innocently; "Mr. Aubrey never married."
"And where does the old gentleman live?"