Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. "What's this here kinchen in for?" asked Terence, as he and Quilt strode along, with Thames between them. Considering his convictions he felt that his remark was a generous one. "I love her already. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time.
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