I left the dining-room in better humour than when I went in, and sat down with the two Miss Farnleys, at a round table covered with annuals and albums. We entered into conversation, and got on (as the phrase is) very well. They were both nice-looking girls; the eldest was handsome. It was not difficult to comply with Henry's request, that I should not make up my mind about any one till he had given me his opinion; for a whole quarter of an hour had not elapsed before he made his appearance in the drawing-room, and instantly came and sat down on the couch by me. Lady Wyndham at that moment begged the eldest Miss Farnley to come and give her advice about some pattern or stitch that she was employed upon, and the youngest went to the open window to speak to Mrs. Brandon and to Mrs. Ernsley, who were walking up and down the gravel walk near the house.
"How do you like your aunt, Ellen?"
"Don't call her my aunt; that is a name sacred to me. I cannot call any one but your sister, my aunt."
"Well, Mrs. Brandon, then; how do you like her?"
"I thought I was not to make up my mind about any one without your assistance?"
"True, but I did not include her; she is an old friend of mine, and I might be partial."
"There would be no harm in biassing me in her favour. I ought to like her, and I'm afraid I don't."
"Don't you?" said Henry, in a tone of so much annoyance and mortification, that I looked at him with surprise. "You will like her," he added, "when you know her."
"But when did you see so much of her? And if she is such a friend of yours, why did you never talk to me of her?"
He did not answer immediately, and I went on.