“My dear,” said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his son, “do you know the hour?”
“No, father.” The son had no watch. The father had a handsome gold one, which he pulled out with an air that was an example to mankind.
“My son,” said he, “it’s two o’clock. Recollect your school at Kensington at three.”
“That’s time enough for me, father,” said Prince. “I can take a morsel of dinner standing and be off.”
“My dear boy,” returned his father, “you must be very quick. You will find the cold mutton on the table.”
“Thank you, father. Are you off now, father?”
“Yes, my dear. I suppose,” said Mr. Turveydrop, shutting his eyes and lifting up his shoulders with modest consciousness, “that I must show myself, as usual, about town.”
“You had better dine out comfortably somewhere,” said his son.
“My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think, at the French house, in the Opera Colonnade.”
“That’s right. Goodbye, father!” said Prince, shaking hands.
“Goodbye, my son. Bless you!”
Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to do his son good, who, in parting from him, was so pleased with him, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him that I almost felt as if it were an