“By your art, of course,” said Steerforth.

Miss Mowcher winked assent. “Forced to send for me. Couldn’t help it. The climate affected his dye; it did very well in Russia, but it was no go here. You never saw such a rusty Prince in all your born days as he was. Like old iron!”

“Is that why you called him a humbug, just now?” inquired Steerforth.