Mr. Sapsea’s premises are in the High Street, over against the Nuns’ House. They are of about the period of the Nuns’ House, irregularly modernised here and there, as steadily deteriorating generations found, more and more, that they preferred air and light to Fever and the Plague. Over the doorway, is a wooden effigy, about half life-size, representing Mr. Sapsea’s father, in a curly wig and toga, in the act of selling. The chastity of the idea, and the natural appearance of the little finger, hammer, and pulpit, have been much admired.
Mr. Sapsea sits in his dull ground-floor sitting-room, giving first on his paved back yard; and then on his railed-off garden. Mr. Sapsea has a bottle of port wine on a table before the fire—the fire is an early luxury, but pleasant on the cool, chilly autumn evening—and is characteristically attended by his portrait, his eight-day clock, and his weatherglass. Characteristically, because he would uphold himself against mankind, his weatherglass against weather, and his clock against time.
By Mr. Sapsea’s side on the table are a writing-desk and writing materials. Glancing at a scrap of manuscript, Mr. Sapsea reads it to himself with a lofty air, and then, slowly pacing the room with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, repeats it from memory: so internally, though with much dignity, that the word “Ethelinda” is alone audible.
There are three clean wineglasses in a tray on the table. His serving-maid entering, and announcing “ Mr. Jasper is come, sir,” Mr. Sapsea waves “Admit him,” and draws two wineglasses from the rank, as being claimed.
“Glad to see you, sir. I congratulate myself on having the honour of receiving you here for the first time.” Mr. Sapsea does the honours of his house in this wise.
“You are very good. The honour is mine and the self-congratulation is mine.”