There was Uncle Fountain on the hall steps to receive her, and the
comely housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, ducking and smiling in the background.
While the servants were unpacking the carriage, Mr. Fountain took Lucy
to her bedroom. Mrs. Brown had gone on before to see for the third
time whether all was comfortable. There was a huge fire, all red; and
on the table a gigantic nosegay of spring flowers, with smell to them
all.
"Oh how nice, after a journey!" said Lucy, mowing down Uncle Fountain
and Mrs. Brown with one comprehensive smile.
Mrs. Brown flamed with complacency.
"What!" cried her uncle; "I suppose you expected a black fire and
impertinent apologies by way of substitute for warmth; a stuffy room,
and damp sheets, roasted, like a woodcock, twenty minutes before use."
"No, uncle, dear, I expected every comfort at Font Abbey." Brown
retired with a courtesy.
"Aha! What! you have found out that it is all humbug about old
bachelors not knowing comfort? Do bachelors ever put their friends
into damp sheets? No; that is the women's trick with their household
science. Your sex have killed more men with damp sheets than ever fell
by the sword."
"Yet nobody erects monuments to us," put in Lucy, slyly.
She missed fire. Uncle Fountain, like most Englishmen, could take in a
pun by the ear, but wit only by the eye. "Do you remember when Mrs.
Bazalgette put you into the linen sponge, and killed you?"
"Killed me?"
"Certainly, as far as in her lay.
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