The little counter being so short a counter that it leaves the fireplace, which would have been behind it if it had been longer, accessible, Mr. Wegg sits down on a box in front of the fire, and inhales a warm and comfortable smell which is not the smell of the shop. “For that,” Mr. Wegg inwardly decides, as he takes a corrective sniff or two, “is musty, leathery, feathery, cellary, gluey, gummy, and,” with another sniff, “as it might be, strong of old pairs of bellows.”

“My tea is drawing, and my muffin is on the hob, Mr. Wegg; will you partake?”