Yet, though John Willet was full of wonder and misgiving, his guest sat cross-legged in the easy-chair, to all appearance as little ruffled in his thoughts as in his dress--the same calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care or thought beyond his golden toothpick.
'Barnaby's late,' John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of tarnished candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and snuffed the lights they held.
'He is rather so,' replied the guest, sipping his wine.

'He will not be much longer, I dare say.' John coughed and raked the fire together.
'As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from my son's mishap, though,' said Mr Chester, 'and as I have no fancy to be knocked on the head--which is not only disconcerting at the moment, but places one, besides, in a ridiculous position with respect to the people who chance to pick one up--I shall stop here to-night.

I think you said you had a bed to spare.' 'Such a bed, sir,' returned John Willet; 'ay, such a bed as few, even of the gentry's houses, own.

A fixter here, sir.

I've heard say that bedstead is nigh two hundred years of age.