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512 THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP
believe he took off his shoes in his own studio, so as not to disturb
by his creaking the lady overhead. He purchased the most preposterous
mug, and other presents for the infant. Philip went out
to his club or his newspaper as he was ordered to do. But Mr. J. J.
could not be got away from Thornhaugh Street, so that little Mrs.
Brandon laughed at him—absolutely laughed at him.
During all this while Philip and his wife continued in the very
greatest favour with Mr. and Mrs. Mugford, and were invited by
that worthy couple to go with their infant to Mugford's villa at
Hampstead, where a change of air might do good to dear baby and
dear mamma. Philip went to this village retreat. Streets and
terraces now cover over the house and grounds which worthy
Mugford inhabited, and which people say he used to call his
Russian Irby. He had amassed in a small space a heap of country
pleasures. He had a little garden ; a little paddock; a little
greenhouse ; a little cucumber-frame ; a little stable for his little
trap; a little Guernsey cow; a little dairy; a little pigsty; and
with this little treasure the good man was not a little content.
He loved and praised everything that was his. No man admired
his own port more than Mugford, or paid more compliments to his
own butter and home-baked bread. He enjoyed his own happiness.
He appreciated his own worth. He loved to talk of the days when
he was a poor boy on London streets, and now—"now try that
glass of port, my boy, and say whether the Lord Mayor has got
any better," he would say, winking at his glass and his company.
To be virtuous, to be lucky, and constantly to think and own that
you are so—is not this true happiness ? To sing hymns in praise
of himself is a charming amusement—at least to the performer ;
and anybody who dined at Mugford's table was pretty sure to hear
some of this music after dinner. I am sorry to say Philip did not
care for this trumpet-blowing. He was frightfully bored at Haverstock
Hill ; and when bored, Mr. Philip is not altogether an agreeable
companion. He will yawn in a man's face. He will contradict
you freely. He will say the mutton is tough, or the wine not fit
to drink ; that such and such an orator is overrated, and such and
such a politician is a fool. Mugford and his guest had battles
after dinner, had actually high words. " What-hever is it, Mugford ?
and what were you quarrelling about in the dining-room?" asks
Mrs. Mugford. "Quarrelling ? It's only the sub-editor snoring,"
said the gentleman, with a flushed face. "My wine ain't good
enough for him ; and now my gentleman must put his boots upon
a chair and go to sleep under my nose. He is a cool hand, and no
mistake, Mrs. M." At this juncture poor little Char would gently
glide down from a visit to her baby : and would play something on