Yes; I preferred the preliminary adjustment.  Mary Quince was standing behind me; and as my voluble kinswoman talked on, we had each ample time and opportunity to observe the personnel of the other; and she made no scruple of letting me perceive that she was improving it, for she stared me full in the face, taking in evidently feature after feature; and she felt the material of my mantle pretty carefully between her finger and thumb, and manually examined my chain and trinkets, and picked up my hand as she might a glove, to con over my rings.

I can’t say, of course, exactly what impression I may have produced on her.  But in my cousin Milly I saw a girl who looked younger than her years, plump, but with a slender waist, with light hair, lighter than mine, and very blue eyes, rather round; on the whole very good-looking.  She had an odd swaggering walk, a toss of her head, and a saucy and imperious, but rather good-natured and honest countenance.  She talked rather loud, with a good ringing voice, and a boisterous laugh when it came.

If I was behind the fashion, what would Cousin Monica have thought of her?  She was arrayed, as she had stated, in black twilled cotton expressive of her affliction; but it was made almost as short in the skirt as that of the prints of the Bavarian broom girls.  She had white cotton stockings, and a pair of black leather boots, with leather buttons, and, for a lady, prodigiously thick soles, which reminded me of the navvy boots I had so often admired in Punch.  I must add that the hands with which she assisted her scrutiny of my dress, though pretty, were very much sunburnt indeed.

‘And what’s her name?’ she demanded, nodding to Mary Quince, who was gazing on her awfully, with round eyes, as an inland spinster might upon a whale beheld for the first time.

Mary courtesied, and I answered.

‘Mary Quince,’ she repeated.  ’You’re welcome, Quince.  What shall I call her?  I’ve a name for all o’ them.  Old Giles there, is Giblets.  He did not like it first, but he answers quick enough now; and Old Lucy Wyat there,’ nodding toward the old woman, ‘is Lucia de l’Amour.’  A slightly erroneous reading of Lammermoor, for my cousin sometimes made mistakes, and was not much versed in the Italian opera.  ’You know it’s a play, and I call her L’Amour for shortness;’ and she laughed hilariously, and I could not forbear joining; and, winking at me, she called aloud, ‘L’Amour.’

To which the crone, with a high-cauled cap, resembling Mother Hubbard, responded with a courtesy and ‘Yes,’m.’

‘Are all the trunks and boxes took up?’

They were.

‘Well, we’ll come now; and what shall I call you, Quince?  Let me see.’

‘According to your pleasure, Miss,’ answered Mary, with dignity, and a dry courtesy.

’Why, you’re as hoarse as a frog, Quince.  We’ll call you Quinzy for the present.  That’ll do.  Come along, Quinzy.’