“I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby’s friend,” he said, bowing low to me.  “I began to fear,” with timid tenderness, “as it was past the usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming.”

“I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir,” said I.

“Oh, dear!” said he.

“And pray,” I entreated, “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, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went on.  Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kit, dancing; sometimes played the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant.  His distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the fire, a model of deportment.