What Will He Do With It? Book VII

Once on a time there lived a merchant named Fossett, a widower with three children, of whom a daughter, Arabella, was by some years the eldest. He was much respected, deemed a warm man, and a safe -- attended diligently to his business -- suffered no partner, no foreman, to dictate or intermeddle -- liked his comforts, but made no pretence to fashion. His villa was at Clapham, not a showy but a solid edifice, with lodge, lawn, and gardens chiefly notable for what is technically called glass -- viz. a range of glass-houses on the most improved principles, the heaviest pines, the earliest strawberries. "I'm no judge of flowers," quoth Mr. Fossett, meekly. "Give me a plain lawn, provided it be close-shaven. But I say to my gardener: 'Forcing is my hobby -- a cucumber with my fish all the year round! " Yet do not suppose Mr Fossett ostentatious -- quite the reverse. He would no more ruin himself for the sake of dazzling others, than he would for the sake of serving them.

He liked a warm house, spacious rooms, good living, old wine, for their inherent merits: He cared not to parade them to public envy. When he dined alone, or with a single favoured guess, the best Lafitte, the oldest sherry! -- when extending the rites of miscellaneous hospitality to neighbours, relations, or other slight acquaintances -- for Lafitte, Julien; and for sherry, Cape! -- Thus not provoking vanity, nor courting notice, Mr. Fossett was without an enemy, and seemed without a care. Formal were his manners, formal his household, formal even the stout cob that bore him from Cheapside to Clapham, from Claphain to Cheapside. That cob could not even prick up its ears if it wished to shy -- its ears were cropped, so were its mane and its tail.