I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was getting on very well indeed.
“What do you think of him?” said my aunt.
I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the question, by replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman; but my aunt was not to be so put off, for she laid her work down in her lap, and said, folding her hands upon it:
“Come! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me what she thought of any one, directly. Be as like your sister as you can, and speak out!”
“Is he—is Mr. Dick—I ask because I don’t know, aunt—is he at all out of his mind, then?” I stammered; for I felt I was on dangerous ground.
“Not a morsel,” said my aunt.
“Oh, indeed!” I observed faintly.
“If there is anything in the world,” said my aunt, with great decision and force of manner, “that Mr. Dick is not, it’s that.”
I had nothing better to offer, than another timid “Oh, indeed!”
“He has been called mad,” said my aunt. “I have a selfish pleasure in saying he has been called mad, or I should not have had the benefit of his society and advice for these last ten years and upwards—in fact, ever since your sister, Betsey Trotwood, disappointed me.”