without a glass, but, in the
end, concluded that things could not be mended now, so he looked round
the room.

What a charming room it was! A couple of good pictures, and several
fine prints on the walls. Over the chimneypiece, a sword, and an old
gold-laced cap, on which Sam looked with reverence. Three French
windows opened on to a dark cool verandah, beyond which was a beautiful
flower garden. The floor of the room, uncarpeted, shone dark and
smooth, and the air was perfumed by vases of magnificent flowers, a
hundred pounds worth of them, I should say, if you could have taken
them to Covent-garden that December morning. But what took Sam's
attention more than anything was an open piano, in a shady recess, and
on the keys a little fairy white glove.

"White kid gloves, eh, my lady?" says Sam; "that don't look well." So
he looked through the bookshelves, and, having lighted on "Boswell's
Johnson," proceeded into the verandah. A colley she-dog was lying at
one end, who banged her tail against the floor in welcome, but was too
utterly prostrated by the heat and by the persecution of her puppy to
get up and make friends. The pup, however, a ball of curly black wool,
with a brown-striped face, who was sitting on the top of her with his
head on one side, seemed to conclude that a game of play was to be got
out of Sam, and came blundering towards him; but Sam was, by this time,
deep in a luxurious rocking-chair, so the puppy stopped half way, and
did battle with a great black tarantula spider who happened to be
abroad on business.

Sam went to the club with his immortal namesake, bullied Bennet
Langton, argued with Beauclerk, put down Goldsmith, and extinguished
Boswell. But it was too hot to read; so he let the book fall on his
lap, and lay a-dreaming.

What a delicious verandah is this to dream in! Through the tangled
passion-flowers, jessamines and magnolias, what a soft gleam of bright
hazy distance, over the plains and far away! The deep river-glen
cleaves the table-land, which, here and there, swells into breezy
downs. Beyond, miles away to the north, is a great forest-barrier,
above which there is a blaze of late snow, sending strange light aloft
into the burning haze. All this is seen through an arch in the dark
mass of verdure which clothed the trellis-work, only broken through in
this one place, as though to make a frame for the picture. He leans
back, and gives himself up to watching trifles.

See here. A