[Illustration: MR. PUFFINGTON, FROM THE ORIGINAL PICTURE]
CHAPTER XXXII
THE MAN OF P-R-O-R-PERTY
And now behold Mr. Puffington, fat, fair, and rather more than
forty--Puffington, no longer the light limber lad who patronized us in Bond
Street, but Puffington a plump, portly sort of personage, filling his smart
clothes uncommonly full. Men no longer hailing him heartily from bay
windows, or greeting him cheerily in short but familiar terms, but bowing
ceremoniously as they passed with their wives, or perhaps turning down
streets or into shops to avoid him. What is the last rose of summer to do
under such circumstances? What, indeed, but retire into the country? A man
may shine there long after he is voted a bore in town, provided none of his
old friends are there to proclaim him. Country people are tolerant of
twaddle, and slow of finding things out for themselves. Puff now turned his
attention to the country, or rather to the advertisements of estates for
sale, and immortal George Robins soon fitted him with one of his earthly
paradises; a mansion replete with every modern elegance, luxury, and
convenience, situated in the heart of the most lovely scenery in the world,
with eight hundred acres of land of the finest quality, capable of growing
forty bushels of wheat after turnips.
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