“Poor Emily!” said I.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about poor,” returned my aunt. “She should have thought of that, before she caused so much misery! Give me a kiss, Trot. I am sorry for your early experience.”
As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me, and said:
“Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?”
“Fancy, aunt!” I exclaimed, as red as I could be. “I adore her with my whole soul!”
“Dora, indeed!” returned my aunt. “And you mean to say the little thing is very fascinating, I suppose?”
“My dear aunt,” I replied, “no one can form the least idea what she is!”
“Ah! And not silly?” said my aunt.
“Silly, aunt!”
I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea, of course; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one altogether.