He resided nine months out of the twelve at St.Ronan's, and was supposed to make an indifferent good thing of it,--especially as he played whist to admiration.
First in place, though perhaps second to the Doctor in real authority, was Mr.Winterblossom; a civil sort of person, who was nicely precise in his address, wore his hair cued, and dressed with powder, had knee-buckles set with Bristol stones, and a seal-ring as large as Sir John Falstaff's.

In his heyday he had a small estate, which he had spent like a gentleman, by mixing with the gay world.

He was, in short, one of those respectable links that connect the coxcombs of the present day with those of the last age, and could compare, in his own experience, the follies of both.

In latter days, he had sense enough to extricate himself from his course of dissipation, though with impaired health and impoverished fortune.
Mr.Winterblossom now lived upon a moderate annuity, and had discovered a way of reconciling his economy with much company and made dishes, by acting as perpetual president of the table-d'hote at the Well.

Here he used to amuse the society by telling stories about Garrick, Foote, Bonnel Thornton, and Lord Kelly, and delivering his opinions in matters of taste and vertu.