I said that I congratulated myself on having the honour to make hers, and that the happiness was mutual.
“Oh, my goodness, how polite we are!” exclaimed Miss Mowcher, making a preposterous attempt to cover her large face with her morsel of a hand. “What a world of gammon and spinach it is, though, ain’t it!”
This was addressed confidentially to both of us, as the morsel of a hand came away from the face, and buried itself, arm and all, in the bag again.
“What do you mean, Miss Mowcher?” said Steerforth.
“Ha! ha! ha! What a refreshing set of humbugs we are, to be sure, ain’t we, my sweet child?” replied that morsel of a woman, feeling in the bag with her head on one side and her eye in the air. “Look here!” taking something out. “Scraps of the Russian Prince’s nails. Prince Alphabet turned topsy-turvy, I call him, for his name’s got all the letters in it, higgledy-piggledy.”
“The Russian Prince is a client of yours, is he?” said Steerforth.
“I believe you, my pet,” replied Miss Mowcher. “I keep his nails in order for him. Twice a week! Fingers and toes.”
“He pays well, I hope?” said Steerforth.
“Pays, as he speaks, my dear child—through the nose,” replied Miss Mowcher. “None of your close shavers the Prince ain’t. You’d say so, if you saw his moustachios. Red by nature, black by art.”
“By your art, of course,” said Steerforth.