"How do you mean?" asked Nicholas.
"Do you consider it a good language, Sir?" said the collector; "a pretty language, a sensible language?"
"A pretty language, certainly," replied Nicholas; "and as it has a name for everything, and admits of elegant conversation about everything, I presume it is a sensible one."
"I don't know," said Mr. Lillyvick, doubtfully. "Do you call it a, cheerful language, now?"
"Yes," replied Nicholas, "I should say it was, certainly."
"It's very much changed since my time, then," said the collector, "very much."
"Was it a dismal one in your time?" asked Nicholas, scarcely able to repress a smile.
"Very," replied Mr. Lillyvick, with some vehemence of manner. "It's the war time that I speak of; the last war. It may be a cheerful language. I should be sorry to contradict anybody; but I can only say that I've heard the French prisoners, who were natives, and ought to know how to speak it, talking in such a dismal manner, that it made one miserable to hear them. Ay, that I have, fifty times, Sir—fifty times."
Mr. Lillyvick was waxing so cross, that Mrs. Kenwigs thought it expedient to motion to Nicholas not to say anything; and it was not until Miss Petowker had practised several blandishments, to soften the excellent old gentleman, that he deigned to break silence, by asking,
"What's the water in French, Sir?"
"L'Eau." replied Nicholas.
"Ah!" said Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head mournfully, "I thought as much. Lo, eh? I don't think anything of that language—nothing at all."
"I suppose the children may begin, uncle?" said Mrs. Kenwigs.
"Oh yes; they may begin, my dear," replied the collector, discontentedly. "I have no wish to prevent them."
This permission being conceded, the four Miss Kenwigses sat in a row, with their tails all one way, and Morleena at the top, while Nicholas, taking the book, began his preliminary explanations. Miss Petowker and Mrs. Kenwigs looked on, in silent admiration, broken only by the whispered assurances of the latter, that Morleena would have it all by heart in no time; and Mr. Lillyvick regarded the group with frowning and attentive eyes, lying in wait for something upon which he could open a fresh discussion on the language.
CHAPTER XVII.
FOLLOWS THE FORTUNES OF MISS NICKLEBY.
It was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which no effort could banish, that Kate Nickleby, on the morning appointed for the
commencement of her engagement with Madame Mantalini, left the city when its clocks yet wanted a quarter of an hour of eight, and threaded
