“Anybody here?” inquired Dowler, suspiciously.
“Anybody! The élite of Ba—ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the lady in the gauze turban?”
“The fat old lady?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, innocently.
“Hush, my dear sir—nobody’s fat or old in Ba—ath. That’s the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph.”
“Is it indeed?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“No less a person, I assure you,” said the Master of the Ceremonies. “Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly dressed young man coming this way?”
“The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“The same. The richest young man in Ba—ath at this moment. Young Lord Mutanhed.”
“You don’t say so?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Yes. You’ll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He’ll speak to me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under-waistcoat and dark moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you do, my lord?”