Chapter 80
That afternoon, when he had slept off his fatigue; had shaved, and
washed, and dressed, and freshened himself from top to toe; when he had
dined, comforted himself with a pipe, an extra Toby, a nap in the great
arm-chair, and a quiet chat with Mrs Varden on everything that had
happened, was happening, or about to happen, within the sphere of their
domestic concern; the locksmith sat himself down at the tea-table in
the little back-parlour: the rosiest, cosiest, merriest, heartiest,
best-contented old buck, in Great Britain or out of it.
There he sat, with his beaming eye on Mrs V., and his shining face
suffused with gladness, and his capacious waistcoat smiling in every
wrinkle, and his jovial humour peeping from under the table in the very
plumpness of his legs; a sight to turn the vinegar of misanthropy into
purest milk of human kindness. There he sat, watching his wife as she
decorated the room with flowers for the greater honour of Dolly and
Joseph Willet, who had gone out walking, and for whom the tea-kettle
had been singing gaily on the hob full twenty minutes, chirping as
never kettle chirped before; for whom the best service of real undoubted
china, patterned with divers round-faced mandarins holding up broad
umbrellas, was now displayed in all its glory; to tempt whose
appetites a clear, transparent, juicy ham, garnished with cool green
lettuce-leaves and fragrant cucumber, reposed upon a shady table,
covered with a snow-white cloth; for whose delight, preserves and jams,
crisp cakes and other pastry, short to eat, with cunning twists, and
cottage loaves, and rolls of bread both white and brown, were all set
forth in rich profusion; in whose youth Mrs V.
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