Not that the ladies’ denunciations did the Corinthian any harm at first -- old ladies know each other better than that; and each new mamma had no doubt but Mrs Depecarde or Mrs Mainchance, as the case might be, had been deceiving herself -- ‘was always doing so, indeed; her ugly girls were not likely to attract anyone -- certainly not such an elegant man as Corinthian Tom.’
But as season after season passed away, and the Corinthian still played the old game -- still went the old rounds -- the dinner and ball invitations gradually dwindled away, till he became a mere stop-gap at the one, and a landing-place appendage at the other.
And now behold Mr Puffington, fat, fair, and rather more than forty -- Puffington, no longer the light limber lad who patronised 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 cherrily 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. In addition to the estate there was a lordship or reputed lordship to shoot over, a river to fish in, a pack of foxhounds to hunt with, and the advertisements gave a sly hint as to the possibility 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 towering 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 a 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 Slogan couldn’t tell whether the drawing-room furniture was chintz, or damask, or what it was; indeed, he wasn’t sure that he was in the drawing-room at all; while Mr Gapes insisted that the carpet was a Turkey carpet, whereas it was a royal cut pile. It might be that the smartness and freshness of everything confused the bucolic minds, little accustomed to wholesale grandeur.