ility of the property influencing the representation of the
neighbouring borough of Swillingford, if not of returning the member
itself.

This was Hanby House, and though the description undoubtedly partook of
George's usual high-flown _couleur-de-rose_ style, the manor being only a
manor provided the owner sacrificed his interest in Swillingford by driving
off its poachers, and the river being only a river when the tiny Swill was
swollen into one, still Hanby House was a very nice attractive sort of
place, and seen in the rich foliage of its summer dress, with all its roses
and flowering shrubs in full blow, the description was not so wide of the
mark as Robins's descriptions usually were. Puff bought it, and became what
he called 'a man of p-r-o-r-perty.' To be sure, after he got possession he
found that it was only an acre here and there that would grow forty bushels
of wheat after turnips, and that there was a good deal more to do at the
house than he expected, the furniture of the late occupants having hidden
many defects, added to which they had walked off with almost everything
they could wrench down, under the name of fixtures; indeed, there was not a
peg to hang up his hat when he entered. This, however, was nothing, and
Puff very soon made it into one of the most perfect bachelor residences
that ever was seen. Not but that it was a family house, with good nurseries
and offices of every description; but Puff used to take a sort of wicked
pleasure in telling the ladies who came trooping over with their daughters,
pretending they thought he was from home, and wishing to see the elegant
furniture, that there was nothing in the nurseries, which he was going to
convert into billiard and smoking-rooms. This, and a few similar sallies,
earned our friend the reputation of a wit in the country.

There was great rush of gentlemen to call upon him; many of the mammas
seemed to think that first come would be first served, and sent their
husbands over before he was fairly squatted. Various and contradictory were
the accounts they brought home. Men are so stupid at seeing and remembering
things. Old Mr. Muddle came back bemused with sherry, declaring that he
thought Mr. Puffington was as old as he was (sixty-two), while Mrs.
Mousetrap thought he wasn't more than thirty at the outside. She described
him as 'painfully handsome.' Mr. Slowan couldn't tell whether the
drawing-room furniture was chintz, or damask, or what it was; i