"Is this Pomona Villa?" asked Miss Macleod.
The bare-headed man looked up and down, and round about, and seemed as though he were more than half disposed to say it wasn't. But as the name was painted over the top bar of the wooden gate, within twelve inches of the lady's nose, he perhaps deemed it wiser to dissemble.
"What--what name?" he stammered.
"I've come about the apostle spoons."
"The apostle spoons! Oh!" The bare-headed man looked blank. He added in a sort of stage aside--"Letters only."
"Perhaps you will allow me to enter."
Miss Macleod did not wait for the required permission, but pushed the gate open, and entered. Her nephew followed at her heels. The bare-headed man stared at the Rev. Alan, and the Rev. Alan at him--one seemed quite as confused as the other.
"Can I see the spoons?" continued Miss Macleod.
"Eh--the fact is--eh--owing to distressing family circumstances--eh--it is impossible--"
What was impossible will never be known, for at that moment the door was opened, and a woman appeared.