Imogene made her way, a little white house with a quaint little white front door. She pulled the brass chain, and in response to the bell a serving-maid announced that Mr. Whyllie was not then at home, having gone to church with his wife. So perforce she had to wait until the master and mistress returned from the morning service. A quaint old lady was the wife of the starchy old lawyer. She was dressed in highly flowered brocades, with a curious bonnet, under which her round little face shone out with much animation. A clever little face it was, with a queer little pursed-up mouth, and a tiny little nose with an upward tilt, and her eyes were lively. It was the face of a clever eccentric. Imogene saw them coming and gave them a profound courtesy as they drew near to their front door.
"Lord love you, Mister Whyllie," the old lady exclaimed, "and what's the pretty wench bobbing at us for?"
"It may be that she would speak to you, my dear," replied the lawyer to his wife.
"Then why doesn't she, sir?" answered the little lady, raising her glasses and quizzing Imogene from head to foot. "A handsome face she has. Mister Whyllie, a handsome face indeed, refined yet rough, but then again rough yet refined, take it how you will, but Lord love you again, Mister Whyllie, she has positively the most obnoxious clothes you could wish for to meet, and no shoes, neither has she stockings, sir, but shapely legs,
