“Rather short in the waist, ain’t it?” said the stranger, screwing himself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons, which were halfway up his back. “Like a general postman’s coat⁠—queer coats those⁠—made by contract⁠—no measuring⁠—mysterious dispensations of Providence⁠—all the short men get long coats⁠—all the long men short ones.” Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’s new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ballroom.

“What names, sir?” said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented him.