"Is he?" A smile flickered over the rueful face. "What time is he coming?"
"I don't know exactly," said Imogene, listlessly stirring her coffee. "Some time in the forenoon."
"Do you suppose he's going to take us anywhere?"
"Yes—I think so. I can't tell exactly."
"If he asks me to go somewhere, will you tease mamma? She always lets you, Imogene, and it seems sometimes as if she just took a pleasure in denying me."
"You mustn't talk so of your mother, Effie."
"No; I wouldn't to everybody. I know that she means for the best; but I don't believe she understands how much I suffer when she won't let me go with Mr. Colville. Don't you think he's about the nicest gentleman we know, Imogene?"
"Yes; he's very kind."
"And I think he's handsome. A good many people would consider him old-looking, and of course he isn't so young as Mr. Morton was, or the Inglehart boys; but that makes him all the easier to get along with. And his being just a little fat, that way, seems to suit so well with his character." The smiles were now playing across the child's face, and her eyes sparkling. "I think Mr. Colville would make a good Saint Nicholas—the kind they have going down chimneys in America. I'm going to tell him, for the next veglione. It would be such a nice surprise."
"No, better not tell him that," suggested Imogene.