“Mad!” said Steerforth.
“It looks like it. However, mad or sane, he tried,” returned Miss Mowcher. “What does he do, but, lo and behold you, he goes into a perfumer’s shop, and wants to buy a bottle of the Madagascar Liquid.”
“Charley does?” said Steerforth.
“Charley does. But they haven’t got any of the Madagascar Liquid.”
“What is it? Something to drink?” asked Steerforth.
“To drink?” returned Miss Mowcher, stopping to slap his cheek. “To doctor his own moustachios with, you know . There was a woman in the shop—elderly female—quite a Griffin—who had never even heard of it by name. ‘Begging pardon, sir,’ said the Griffin to Charley, ‘it’s not—not—not rouge , is it?’ ‘Rouge,’ said Charley to the Griffin. ‘What the unmentionable to ears polite, do you think I want with rouge?’ ‘No offence, sir,’ said the Griffin; ‘we have it asked for by so many names, I thought it might be.’ Now that, my child,” continued Miss Mowcher, rubbing all the time as busily as ever, “is another instance of the refreshing humbug I was speaking