His ancestors had been among the persecuted French people who found a refuge in England, when the priest-ridden tyrant, Louis the Fourteenth, revoked the Edict of Nantes.
A British subject by birth, and a thoroughly competent and trustworthy man, Mr.Sarrazin labored under one inveterate delusion; he firmly believed that his original French nature had been completely eradicated, under the influence of our insular climate and our insular customs.
No matter how often the strain of the lively French blood might assert itself, at inconvenient times and under regrettable circumstances, he never recognized this foreign side of his character.

His excellent spirits, his quick sympathies, his bright mutability of mind--all those qualities, in short, which were most mischievously ready to raise distrust in the mind of English clients, before their sentiment changed for the better under the light of later experience--were attributed by Mr.Sarrazin to the exhilarating influence of his happy domestic circumstances and his successful professional career.

His essentially English wife; his essentially English children; his whiskers, his politics, his umbrella, his pew at church, his plum pudding, his _Times_ newspaper, all answered for him (he was accustomed to say) as an inbred member of the glorious nation that rejoices in hunting the fox, and believes in innumerable pills.
This excellent man arrived at the cottage, desperately fatigued after his long journey, but in perfect possession of his incomparable temper, nevertheless.
He afforded a proof of this happy state of mind, on sitting down to his supper.

An epicure, if ever there was one yet, he found the solid part of the refreshments offered to him to consist of a chop.

The old French blood curdled at the sight of it--but the true-born Englishman heroically devoted himself to the national meal.