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.