David Copperfield
busily as ever, ‘is another instance of the refreshing hum-
bug 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 Steer-
forth.
‘Put this and that together, my tender pupil,’ returned the
wary Mowcher, touching her nose, ‘work it by the rule of Se-
crets in all trades, and the product will give you the desired
result. I say I do a little in that way myself. One Dowager,
SHE calls it lip-salve. Another, SHE calls it gloves. Another,
SHE calls it tucker-edging. Another, SHE calls it a fan. I call
it whatever THEY call it. I supply it for ‘em, but we keep up
the trick so, to one another, and make believe with such a
face, that they’d as soon think of laying it on, before a whole
drawing-room, as before me. And when I wait upon ‘em,
they’ll say to me sometimes - WITH IT ON - thick, and no
mistake - ‘How am I looking, Mowcher? Am I pale?’ Ha! ha!
ha! ha! Isn’t THAT refreshing, my young friend!’
I never did in my days behold anything like Mowcher
as she stood upon the dining table, intensely enjoying this
refreshment, rubbing busily at Steerforth’s head, and wink-
ing at me over it.
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Such things are not much in demand here-
abouts. That sets me off again! I haven’t seen a pretty woman
since I’ve been here, jemmy.’
‘No?’ said Steerforth.
‘Not the ghost of one,’ replied Miss Mowcher.
‘We could show her the substance of one, I think?’ said
