Caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine, being, I believe, as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as any tender heart that ever beat in this world; and after another turn or two round the garden, during which she put on an entirely new pair of gloves and made herself as resplendent as possible that she might do no avoidable discredit to the Master of Deportment, we went to Newman Street direct.

Prince was teaching, of course.  We found him engaged with a not very hopeful pupil—­a stubborn little girl with a sulky forehead, a deep voice, and an inanimate, dissatisfied mama—­whose case was certainly not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into which we threw her preceptor.  The lesson at last came to an end, after proceeding as discordantly as possible; and when the little girl had changed her shoes and had had her white muslin extinguished in shawls, she was taken away.  After a few words of preparation, we then went in search of Mr. Turveydrop, whom we found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as a model of deportment, on the sofa in his private apartment—­the only comfortable room in the house.  He appeared to have dressed at his leisure in the intervals of a light collation, and his dressing-case, brushes, and so forth, all of quite an elegant kind, lay about.

“Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jellyby.”

“Charmed!  Enchanted!” said Mr. Turveydrop, rising with his high-shouldered bow.  “Permit me!” Handing chairs.  “Be seated!” Kissing the tips of his left fingers.  “Overjoyed!” Shutting his eyes and rolling.  “My little retreat is made a paradise.”  Recomposing himself on the sofa like the second gentleman in Europe.

“Again you find us, Miss Summerson,” said he, “using our little arts to polish, polish!  Again the sex stimulates us and rewards us by the condescension of its lovely presence.  It is much in these times (and we have made an awfully degenerating business of it since the days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent—­my patron, if I may presume to say so) to experience that deportment is not wholly trodden under foot by mechanics.  That it can yet bask in the smile of beauty, my dear madam.”

I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply; and he took a pinch of snuff.

“My dear son,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “you have four schools this afternoon.  I would recommend a hasty sandwich.”

“Thank you, father,” returned Prince, “I will be sure to be punctual.  My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind for what I am going to say?”

“Good heaven!” exclaimed the model, pale and aghast as Prince and Caddy, hand in hand, bent down before him.  “What is this?  Is this lunacy!  Or what is this?”

“Father,” returned Prince with great submission, “I love this young lady, and we are engaged.”

“Engaged!” cried Mr. Turveydrop, reclining on the sofa and shutting out the sight with his hand.  “An arrow launched at my brain by my own child!”