‘If you please,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘It runs thus,’ said the grave man, still more gravely.
‘“Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo, and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
With a dog,
Expiring frog!”’
‘Finely expressed,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘All point, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can do justice to it, Sir. She will repeat it, in character, Sir, to-morrow morning.’
‘In character!’
‘As Minerva. But I forgot—it’s a fancy-dress dejeune.’
‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure—‘I can’t possibly—’
‘Can’t, sir; can’t!’ exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘Solomon Lucas, the Jew in the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, how many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, Pythagoras—all founders of clubs.’
‘I know that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I cannot put myself in competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses.’