Thus it came to pass that Selbrook-place was for the most part affected by elderly ladies, maiden or widowed, without encumbrance, by spinster sisters of doubtful age, by gouty old gentlemen who over-ate themselves and over-drank themselves in the respectable seclusion of dining-rooms, unexposed to the vulgar gaze. There was much talk about eating and drinking, servants, and wills, in Selbrook-place. Every inhabitant of those six-and-twenty respectable houses knew all about his or her neighbours’ intentions as to the ultimate disposal of their property. That property question was an inexhaustible subject of conversation. Every one in Selbrook-place seemed amply provided with the goods of this world, and those who lived in the profoundest solitude and spent least money were reputed the richest. Miss Glenlyne was one of these. She never gave a dinner or a cup of tea to neighbour or friend; she wore shabby garments, and went out in a hired bath-chair, attended by a confidential maid or companion, who was just a shade shabbier than herself. The gradation was almost imperceptible, for the maid wore out the mistress’s clothes—clothes that had not been new within the memory of any one in Selbrook-place. Miss Glenlyne had brought a voluminous wardrobe to Brighton twenty years ago, and appeared to have been gradually wearing out that handsome supply of garments, so little concession did she make to the mutations of taste. A maid-servant opened the door—a maid-servant attired with scrupulous neatness in the lavender cotton gown and frilled muslin cap which have become traditional. To this maid Lucius gave Mr. Pullman’s letter and his own card, saying that he would wait to know if Miss Glenlyne would be so good as to see him. The maid looked embarrassed, evidently thoughtful of the spoons, which doubtless lurked somewhere in the dim religious light of a small pantry, at the end of the passage. After a moment’s hesitation she rang a call-bell, and kept her eye on Lucius and Lucille until the summons was answered. It was answered quickly by an elderly person in a black silk gown, in which time had developed a mellow green tinge and to which friction had given a fine gloss. This person, who wore a bugled black lace cap, rather on one side, was Miss Spilling, once Miss Glenlyne’s maid, now elevated to a middle station, half servant, half companion—servant to be ordered about, companion to sympathise. ‘I have a letter of introduction to Miss Glenlyne, from Mr. Pullman of Lincoln’s-inn,’ said Lucius. ‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Miss Spilling; ‘Mr. Pullman ought to know that Miss Glenlyne objects to receive any one, above all a stranger. She is a great invalid. Mr. Pullman ought to know better than to give letters of introduction without Miss Glenlyne’s permission.’ ‘The matter is one of importance,’ said Lucius, ‘or I should not have troubled Miss Glenlyne.’