I wish you'd go upstairs,

　　'I wish you'd go upstairs,' said my aunt, as she threaded her needle, 'and  give my compliments to Mr.  Dick, and I'll be  glad to know how  he gets on with  his Memorial.'

　　I rose with all alacrity, to acquit myself of this commission.

　　'I suppose,' said my aunt, eyeing me  as narrowly as she had eyed the  needle in threading it, 'you think Mr. Dick a short name, eh?'

　　'I thought it was rather a short name, yesterday,' I confessed.

　　'You are not to  suppose that he hasn't  got a longer name,  if he chose to  use it,' said my aunt,  with a loftier air.   'Babley - Mr. Richard  Babley - that's the gentleman's true name.'

　　I was going to suggest,  with a modest sense of  my youth and the familiarity  I had been already guilty of, that I had better give him the full benefit of  that name, when my aunt went on to say:

　　'But don't you call him by it, whatever you do.  He can't bear his name.  That's a peculiarity  of his.   Though I  don't know  that it's  much of a peculiarity, either; for he has been ill-used enough, by some that bear it, to have a  mortal antipathy for it, Heaven knows. Mr. Dick is his name here, and everywhere  else, now - if he ever went anywhere  else, which he don't.  So take care,  child, you don't call him anything BUT Mr. Dick.'

　　I promised to obey, and went upstairs with my message; thinking, as I went, that if Mr. Dick had  been working at his  Memorial long, at the  same rate as I  had seen him working at it, through the open door, when I came down, he was probably getting on very well indeed.  I found  him still driving at it with a  long pen, and his head almost laid upon the paper.   He was so intent upon it, that I  had ample leisure  to observe  the large  paper kite  in a  corner, the confusion of bundles of manuscript, the number of  pens, and, above all, the quantity  of ink (which  he seemed  to have  in, in  half-gallon jars  by the  dozen), before  he observed my being present.