which is enough to make one beg next time to be treated as a stranger.
Conversation there was none—Mr. Smithson kindly sparing the lungs of his friends, at the expense of his own. First, the fire was sworn at—then, the draught from the door—then, the poor little footboy was encouraged by the pleasant intelligence that he was the stupidest blockhead in the world. Mr. Perkins sat preserving his silence and his simper; and to the lady of the house it was evidently quite matter of habit—a sort of accompaniment she would almost have missed.
The truth is, Mr. Smithson had just married some twenty years too late—with his habits, like his features, quite set, and both in a harsh mould. Young lady! looking out for an establishment—meditating on the delights of a house of your own—two maids and a man, over whom you are set in absolute authority—do any thing rather than marry a confirmed bachelor—venture on one who has been successful with seven succeeding wives, with ten small children ready made to order—walk off with some tall youth, who considers a wife and a razor definitive signs of his growth and his sense; but shun the establishment of a bachelor
