As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me, and said:
“Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?”
“Fancy, aunt!” I exclaimed, as red as I could be. “I adore her with my whole soul!”
“Dora, indeed!” returned my aunt. “And you mean to say the little thing is very fascinating, I suppose?”
“My dear aunt,” I replied, “no one can form the least idea what she is!”
“Ah! And not silly?” said my aunt.
“Silly, aunt!”
I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea, of course; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one altogether.
“Not lightheaded?” said my aunt.
“Lightheaded, aunt!” I could only repeat this daring speculation with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the preceding question.
“Well, well!” said my aunt. “I only ask. I don’t depreciate her. Poor little couple! And so you think you were formed for one another, and are to go through a party-supper-table kind of life, like two pretty pieces of confectionery, do you, Trot?”
She asked me this so kindly, and with such a gentle air, half playful and half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.