“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth, warmly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.”
“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and, perhaps, you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”
“Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”
“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.”
Wickham only shook his head.
“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”