The wisdom of the serpent, Mr.
Barton considered, was one of his strong points.
Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard! The silver light that falls aslant on church and tomb, enables you to see his slim black figure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits past the pale gravestones.

He walks with a quick step, and is now rapping with sharp decision at the vicarage door.

It is opened without delay by the nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once--that is to say, by the robust maid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr.Barton hangs up his hat in the passage, you see that a narrow face of no particular complexion--even the small-pox that has attacked it seems to have been of a mongrel, indefinite kind--with features of no particular shape, and an eye of no particular expression is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently rising from brow to crown.

You judge him, rightly, to be about forty.

The house is quiet, for it is half-past ten, and the children have long been gone to bed.