Sir John was breakfasting in bed. His chocolate and toast stood upon a
little table at his elbow; books and newspapers lay ready to his hand,
upon the coverlet; and, sometimes pausing to glance with an air of
tranquil satisfaction round the well-ordered room, and sometimes to
gaze indolently at the summer sky, he ate, and drank, and read the news
luxuriously.
The cheerful influence of the morning seemed to have some effect, even
upon his equable temper. His manner was unusually gay; his smile more
placid and agreeable than usual; his voice more clear and pleasant. He
laid down the newspaper he had been reading; leaned back upon his
pillow with the air of one who resigned himself to a train of charming
recollections; and after a pause, soliloquised as follows:
'And my friend the centaur, goes the way of his mamma! I am not
surprised. And his mysterious friend Mr Dennis, likewise! I am not
surprised. And my old postman, the exceedingly free-and-easy young
madman of Chigwell! I am quite rejoiced. It's the very best thing that
could possibly happen to him.'
After delivering himself of these remarks, he fell again into his
smiling train of reflection; from which he roused himself at length
to finish his chocolate, which was getting cold, and ring the bell for
more.
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