“Well—one of them is a Mr Winter.” Aubrey spoke with great reluctance, as his aunt saw well. He selected Winter’s name as being least uncommon of the group. But he soon found that Destiny, in the person of Aunt Temperance, did not mean to let him off so lightly as this.
“What sort of an icicle is he?”
“He isn’t an icicle at all, Aunt, but a very good fellow and right pleasant company.”
“Prithee bring him to see us. Where lodgeth he?—is he a London man?”
“He is a Worcestershire gentleman, on a visit hither.”
“Pass him. Who else?”
“Well—a man named Darcy.”
“A man, and not a gentleman? Whence comes he?”
“I don’t know. Scarcely a gentleman, seeing he deals in horses.”
“Horses are good fellows enough, mostly: but folks who deal in horses are apt to be worser,—why, can I never tell. Is the horse-dealer pleasant company belike?”