, »do not allow me to be the cause of any more
delay.«
    With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (who, being well used
to it, had already climbed into a corner place) and an old lady of a censorious
countenance, whose two nieces were in the class, and who was very indignant with
Peepy's boots. Prince Turveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his
fingers, and the young ladies stood up to dance. Just then, there appeared from
a side door, old Mr. Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his Deportment.
    He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth, false
whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded breast to his
coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon to be complete. He was
pinched in, and swelled out, and got up, and strapped down, as much as he could
possibly bear. He had such a neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their
natural shape), and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed
as though he must inevitably double up, if it were cast loose. He had, under his
arm, a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward from the crown to the
brim; and in his hand a pair of white gloves, with which he flapped it, as he
stood poised on one leg, in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance
not to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box, he
had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything but any touch of nature; he was
not like youth, he was not like age, he was not like anything in the world but a
model of Deportment.
    »Father! A visitor. Miss Jellyby's friend, Miss Summerson.«
    »Distinguished,« said Mr. Turveydrop, »by Miss Summerson's presence.« As he
bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believe I saw creases come into the
whites of his eyes.
    »My father,« said the son, aside, to me, with quite an affecting belief in
him, »is a celebrated character. My father is greatly admired.«
    »Go on, Prince! Go on!« said Mr. Turveydrop, standing with his back to the
fire, and waving his gloves condescendingly. »Go on, my son!«
    At this command,