Mr. Lintot was a large, and rather good-looking man—what would be called comfortable-looking, in his appearance. He had a large arm-chair, and his very substantial raiment did not appear at all likely to inconvenience him by any restraining tightness. He obviously liked being at his ease: as to meaning, his face had as little as a face could positively have. It was not till animated by some discussion, based upon the multiplication-table, that you saw how keen and shrewd those large, dull, gray eyes could become. His welcome to his visitor was more than friendly—it was paternal: he shook him by both hands, and asked so anxiously how the air of London agreed with him.
"Terrible fog, sir!—terrible fog! You did not write your pastoral poems here? Very pretty they are: I wish every body had my taste for green fields and sheep, poetry would sell then!"
"One portion of my volume, at all events, finds favour with you?" said Walter, very much encouraged by his reception.
