“In good sooth, Aunt, I did not—I meant, indeed—I should maybe have looked in,” stammered the young man.
“Tell no lies, my lad, for thou dost it very ill,” was Aunt Temperance’s most inconsiderate reply.
“You might come to see us oftener, I’m sure, Aubrey, if you would,” said his mother in a plaintive voice. “It is hard, when I have only one child, that he should never care to come. I wish you had been a girl like Lettice, and then we could have had some comfort out of you.”
“My dear,” said Aunt Temperance, “he is devoutly thankful he’s not. He doesn’t want to be tied at the aprons of a parcel of women, trust me. Have you had your pipe of open-work, or what you are pleased to call it, Gentleman, this morrow? Only think of hanging that filthy stench about those velvet fal-lals! With whom spent you last even, lad?”
The question came so suddenly that Aubrey was startled into truth. “With some friends of mine in the Strand, Aunt.” The next instant he was sorry.
“Let’s have their names,” said Aunt Temperance.
“Well, Tom Rookwood was one.”
“Folks generally put the best atop. Hope he wasn’t the best. Who else?”
“Some gentlemen to whom Rookwood introduced me.”
“I want their names,” said the female examiner.