"The book," said Miss Corbin, after a pause, "is not at all bad. I daresay there are a good many lies in it, still they're decently told lies. You've improved this time, Eustace."
"Thank you, my dear aunt, I'm glad to have your good opinion, but the critics----"
"Critics," snorted Aunt Jelly scornfully, "do you mean those idiots that scribble for the papers and who would abuse their parents for two pence three farthings? Pooh! I don't call those critics. In the palmy days of the Quarterly Review there were decent reviewers, but now--rubbish! they write nothing but drivel, though to be sure it's drivel they criticise. I'm not talking about your book, Eustace, my dear. It's good!--very good, and I wouldn't say so if I didn't think so."
"No, I'm sure you wouldn't," replied Eustace meekly. "And how are things, aunt?"
"What kind of things, child? Be more explicit."
"Well, my cousin Errington, is he all right?"
"Humph! right enough."
"And his wife?"
"She's a fool," remarked Aunt Jelly politely, at which Eustace felt quite indignant.
"I don't think so."