[…] as he is going to a house dedicated to joy and mirth, it was fit he should divest himself of whatever was likely to contradict that intention, or be inconsistent with it.

We will use a smoke machine to simulate the fog you will actually encounter.

Fine, thanks. (informal)

“I was never competitive in the girly sense; I was a tomboy, on all the sports teams, and I started riding at 3 and kept on riding whatever pony my sister grew out of,” she says, trying to wrestle the muddy, possibly manurey football she found in her bed from the jaws of her bull terrier, Mabel.