He purchased a shop in Piccadilly for the sale of fruit and flowers.
Lady Arpington was entreated to deal at the shop, Countess Livia had her orders; his friends, his parasites and satellites, were to deal there.
Intensely earnest as usual, he besought great ladies to let him have the overflow of their hothouses; and they classing it as another of the mystifications of a purse crazy for repleteness, inquired: 'But is it you we are to deal with ?' And he quite seriously said: 'With me, yes, at present.' Something was behind the curtain, of course.

His gravity had the effect of the ultra-comical in concealing it.
The shop was opened.

We have the assurance of Rose Mackrell, that he entered and examined the piles and pans of fruit, and the bouquets cunningly arranged by a hand smelling French.

The shop was roomy, splendid windows lighted the yellow, the golden, the green and parti-coloured stores.

Four doors off, a chemist's motley in bellied glasses crashed on the sight.