CHAPTER X. THE CURATE
So we stood, Helen and I in the bedroom, Hench in the door behind us, Osmund in the hall. No one moved.
Then the voice came again:
'My name is Pengelly.'
We heard Osmund answer quietly: 'Won't you come in?'
I watched him, a tubby man, enter. He had a round rosy face shining (if he had been in an old-fashioned novel) with soap and water. His mild amiable eyes were covered and emphasized by spectacles with tortoise-shell rims. He was bald on the top of his head, and had a dark suit, a little shiny, that fitted his limbs a trifle too closely. He was all smile and shining spectacles and stout thigh and small friendly stomach. A dear little man, a younger 'Pickwick'; had he worn a high white wall of a collar he would have made a perfect curate. His voice suited his ap
