At that word Eglantine turned deadly pale, then gave a start, then a
rush forward, which pinned, or rather cushioned, the tailor against
the wall; then twisting himself abruptly round, he sprang to the
door of the bar, and bounced into that apartment.

"HOW ARE YOU, MY NOSEGAY?" exclaimed the same voice which had
shouted "Brava!" It was that of Captain Walker.

At ten o'clock the next morning, a gentleman, with the King's button
on his military coat, walked abruptly into Mr. Eglantine's shop,
and, turning on Mr. Mossrose, said, "Tell your master I want to see
him."

"He's in his studio," said Mr. Mossrose.

"Well, then, fellow, go and fetch him!"

And Mossrose, thinking it must be the Lord Chamberlain, or Doctor
Praetorius at least, walked into the studio, where the perfumer was
seated in a very glossy old silk dressing-gown, his fair hair
hanging over his white face, his double chin over his flaccid
whity-brown shirt-collar, his pea-green slippers on the hob, and on
the fire the pot of chocolate which was simmering for his breakfast.
A lazier fellow than poor Eglantine it would be hard to find;
whereas, on the contrary, Woolsey was always up and brushed,
spick-and-span, at seven o'clock; and had gone through his books,
and given out the work for the journeymen, and eaten a hearty
breakfast of rashers of bacon, before Eglantine had put the usual
pound of grease to his hair (his fingers were always as damp and
shiny as if he had them in a pomatum-pot), and arranged his figure