An affirmative snort from Aunt Jelly.
"Yes," replied Minnie, "I do write poetry sometimes."
"So Mr. Gartney told me."
"Oh, Eustace," cried Aunt Jelly significantly, "where is he now? Guy, don't go to sleep! Where is your cousin?"
"I don't know," retorted Guy, who had closed his eyes for a moment. "Gone to Cyprus, or some out of-the-way place. Hasn't he written to you?"
"Does he ever write letters?" demanded Aunt Jelly in an exasperated tone. "No! he keeps all his scribblings for the public."
"Oh, he does write beautifully," said Minnie, clasping her hands.
"Humph! that's a matter of opinion," responded Aunt Jelly doubtfully. "He's as blasphemous as Lord Byron, without any of his genius. He's more like that Lalla Rookh man that wrote such dreadful things under the name of Little. Don't be afraid, child, I'm not going to quote them."
"Mr. Gartney is a very charming talker," said Alizon quietly.
"Bless me, child, you've got a good word to say for everyone," remarked Aunt Jelly, with a benevolent scowl. "He certainly does talk well. It's almost a lost art now-a-days. Men and women don't talk, they drivel about their own virtues and their friends' faults. But Eustace!--well, yes, he's more amusing than you, Guy; you, my dear, have got all your goods in the shop window. Good appearance, but no brains."