 when it was going
to begin.
    At the tea-table there was plenty of conversation on a great variety of
subjects, nor were there wanting jocose matters of discussion, such as they
were; for young Mr. Cheeryble's recent stay in Germany happening to be alluded
to, old Mr. Cheeryble informed the company that the aforesaid young Mr.
Cheeryble was suspected to have fallen deeply in love with the daughter of a
certain German burgomaster. This accusation young Mr. Cheeryble most indignantly
repelled, upon which Mrs. Nickleby slily remarked that she suspected, from the
very warmth of the denial, there must be something in it. Young Mr. Cheeryble
then earnestly entreated old Mr. Cheeryble to confess that it was all a jest,
which old Mr. Cheeryble at last did, young Mr. Cheeryble being so much in
earnest about it, that - as Mrs. Nickleby said many thousand times afterwards in
recalling the scene - he quite coloured, which she rightly considered a
memorable circumstance, and one worthy of remark, young men not being as a class
remarkable for modesty or self-denial, especially when there is a lady in the
case, when, if they colour at all, it is rather their practice to colour the
story, and not themselves.
    After tea there was a walk in the garden, and the evening being very fine
they strolled out at the garden gate into some lanes and bye-roads, and
sauntered up and down until it grew quite dark. The time seemed to pass very
quickly with all the party. Kate went first, leaning upon her brother's arm, and
talking with him and Mr. Frank Cheeryble; and Mrs. Nickleby and the elder
gentleman followed at a short distance, the kindness of the good merchant, his
interest in the welfare of Nicholas, and his admiration of Kate, so operating
upon the good lady's feelings, that the usual current of her speech was confined
within very narrow and circumscribed limits. Smike (who, if he had ever been an
object of interest in his life, had been one that day) accompanied them, joining
sometimes one group and sometimes the other, as brother Charles, laying his hand
upon his shoulder, bade him walk with him, or Nicholas, looking smilingly round,
beckoned him to come and talk with the old friend who understood him best, and
who could win a smile into his care-worn face when none else could.
    Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; but it cannot be the pride of a
mother in her children, for that is a compound of
