“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 of. I do something in that way myself⁠—perhaps a good deal⁠—perhaps a little⁠—sharp’s the word, my dear boy⁠—never mind!”

“In what way do you mean? In the rouge way?” said Steerforth.