had long been engaged: the ladies were more civil than to interrupt him
in his undertaking, and besides, it would entirely have disconcerted all
Mrs. Wetenhall's schemes.

This lady was what may be properly called a beauty, entirely English,
made up of lilies and roses, of snow and milk, as to colour; and of wax,
with respect to the arms, hands, neck, and feet, but all this without
either animation or air; her face was uncommonly pretty; but there was no
variety, no change of countenance in it: one would have thought she took
it in the morning out of a case, in order to put it up again at night,
without using it in the smallest degree in the daytime. What can I say
of her! nature had formed her a baby from her infancy, and a baby
remained till death the fair Mrs. Wetenhall. Her husband had been
destined for the church; but his elder brother dying just at the time he
had gone through his studies of divinity, instead of taking orders, he
came to England, and took to wife Miss Bedingfield, the lady of whom we
are now speaking.

His person was not disagreeable, but he had a serious contemplative air,
very apt to occasion disgust: as for the rest, she might boast of having
one of the greatest theologists in the kingdom for her husband: he was
all day poring over his books, and went to bed soon, in order to rise
early; so that his wife found him snoring when she came to bed, and when
he arose he left her there sound asleep: his conversation at table would
have been very brisk, if Mrs. Wetenhall had been as great a proficient
in divinity, or as great a lover of controversy, as he was; but being
neither learned in the former, nor desirous of the latter, silence
reigned at their table, as absolutely as at a refectory.

She had often expressed a great desire to see London; but though they