With this, she tilted some of the contents of the little bottle on to one of the little bits of flannel, and, again imparting some of the virtues of that preparation to one of the little brushes, began rubbing and scraping away with both on the crown of Steerforth’s head in the busiest manner I ever witnessed, talking all the time.

“There’s Charley Pyegrave, the duke’s son,” she said. “You know Charley?” peeping round into his face.

“A little,” said Steerforth.

“What a man he is! There’s a whisker! As to Charley’s legs, if they were only a pair (which they ain’t), they’d defy competition. Would you believe he tried to do without me⁠—in the Life-Guards, too?”

“Mad!” said Steerforth.