“Go along, you dog, do!” cried the little creature, making a whisk at him with the handkerchief with which she was wiping her face, “and don’t
be impudent! But I give you my word and honor I was at Lady Mithers’s last week—there’s a woman! How she wears!—and Mithers himself came into the room where I was waiting for her—there’s a man! How he wears! and his wig too, for he’s had it these ten years—and he went on at that rate in the complimentary line, that I began to think I should be obliged to ring the bell. Ha! ha! ha! He’s a pleasant wretch, but he wants principle.”
“What were you doing for Lady Mithers?” asked Steerforth.
“That’s tellings, my blessed infant,” she retorted, tapping her nose again, screwing up her face, and twinkling her eyes like an imp of supernatural intelligence. “Never you mind! You’d like to know whether I stop her hair from falling off, or dye it, or touch up her complexion, or improve her eyebrows, wouldn’t you? And so you shall, my darling—when I tell you! Do you know what my great grandfather’s name was?”
“No,” said Steerforth.
“It was Walker, my sweet pet,” replied Miss Mowcher, “and he came of a long line of Walkers, that I inherit all the Hookey estates from.”
I never beheld anything approaching to Miss Mowcher’s wink, except Miss Mowcher’s self-possession. She had a wonderful way too, when listening to what was said to her, or when waiting for an answer to what she had said herself, of pausing with her head cunningly on one side, and one eye turned up like a magpie’s. Altogether I was lost in amazement, and sat staring at her, quite oblivious, I am afraid, of the laws of politeness.
She had by this time drawn the chair to her side, and was busily engaged in producing from the bag (plunging in her short arm to the shoulder, at every dive) a number of small bottles, sponges, combs, brushes, bits of flannel, little pairs of curling irons, and other instruments, which she tumbled in a heap upon the chair. From this employment she suddenly desisted, and said to Steerforth, much to my confusion:
“Who’s your friend?”
“Mr. Copperfield,” said Steerforth; “he wants to know you.”