For example, I recollect Miss Wilkes very distinctly, since I studied her with great deliberation, and with a suspicious watchfulness that was above my years.  In Miss Wilkes a type that had hitherto been absolutely unfamiliar to us obtruded upon our experience.  In our Eveless Eden, Woman, if not exactly hirsuta et horrida, had always been ‘of a certain age’.  But Miss Wilkes was a comparatively young thing, and she advanced not by any means unconscious of her charms.  All was feminine, all was impulsive, about Miss Wilkes; every gesture seemed eloquent with girlish innocence and the playful dawn of life.  In actual years I fancy she was not so extremely youthful, since she was the responsible and trusted headmistress of a large boarding-school for girls, but in her heart the joy of life ran high.  Miss Wilkes had a small, round face, with melting eyes, and when she lifted her head, her ringlets seemed to vibrate and shiver like the bells of a pagoda.  She had a charming way of clasping her hands, and holding them against her bodice, while she said, ’Oh, but—­really now?’ in a manner inexpressibly engaging.  She was very earnest, and she had a pleading way of calling out:  ’O, but aren’t you teasing me?’ which would have brought a tiger fawning to her crinoline.

After we had spent a full year without any social distractions, it seems that our circle of acquaintances had now begun to extend, in spite of my Father’s unwillingness to visit his neighbours.  He was a fortress that required to be stormed, but there was considerable local curiosity about him, so that by-and-by escalading parties were formed, some of which were partly successful.  In the first place, Charles Kingsley had never hesitated to come, from the beginning, ever since our arrival.  He had reason to visit our neighbouring town rather frequently, and on such occasions he always marched up and attacked us.  It was extraordinary how persistent he was, for my Father must have been a very trying friend.  I vividly recollect that a sort of cross-examination of would-be communicants was going on in our half-furnished drawing-room one weekday morning, when Mr. Kingsley was announced; my Father, in stentorian tones, replied:  ’Tell Mr. Kingsley that I am engaged in examining Scripture with certain of the Lord’s children.’  And I, a little later, kneeling at the window, while the candidates were being dismissed with prayer, watched the author of Hypatia nervously careening about the garden, very restless and impatient, yet preferring this ignominy to the chance of losing my Father’s company altogether.  Kingsley, a daring spirit, used sometimes to drag us out trawling with him in Torbay, and although his hawk’s beak and rattling voice frightened me a little, his was always a jolly presence that brought some refreshment to our seriousness.