Sorry to destroy romance by fixing him with a local habitation, but he comes from the place, the name of which escapes me, but will suggest itself to everybody else here, where they make the wine.' Eugene suggests 'Day and Martin's.' 'No, not that place,' returns the unmoved Mortimer, 'that's where they make the Port.

My man comes from the country where they make the Cape Wine.

But look here, old fellow; its not at all statistical and it's rather odd.' It is always noticeable at the table of the Veneerings, that no man troubles himself much about the Veneerings themselves, and that any one who has anything to tell, generally tells it to anybody else in preference.
'The man,' Mortimer goes on, addressing Eugene, 'whose name is Harmon, was only son of a tremendous old rascal who made his money by Dust.' 'Red velveteens and a bell ?' the gloomy Eugene inquires.
'And a ladder and basket if you like.

By which means, or by others, he grew rich as a Dust Contractor, and lived in a hollow in a hilly country entirely composed of Dust.

On his own small estate the growling old vagabond threw up his own mountain range, like an old volcano, and its geological formation was Dust.