state of dishabille?

Do we not all know some reverend, all but sacred, personage before
whom our tongue ceases to be loud and our step to be elastic? But
were we once to see him stretch himself beneath the bed-clothes, yawn
widely, and bury his face upon his pillow, we could chatter before
him as glibly as before a doctor or a lawyer. From some such cause,
doubtless, it arose that our archdeacon listened to the counsels of
his wife, though he considered himself entitled to give counsel to
every other being whom he met.

"My dear," he said, as he adjusted the copious folds of his nightcap,
"there was that John Bold at your father's again to-day. I must say
your father is very imprudent."

"He is imprudent;--he always was," replied Mrs Grantly, speaking from
under the comfortable bed-clothes. "There's nothing new in that."

"No, my dear, there's nothing new;--I know that; but, at the present
juncture of affairs, such imprudence is--is--I'll tell you what, my
dear, if he does not take care what he's about, John Bold will be off
with Eleanor."

"I think he will, whether papa takes care or no; and why not?"

"Why not!" almost screamed the archdeacon, giving so rough a pull at
his nightcap as almost to bring it over his nose; "why not!--that
pestilent, interfering upstart, John Bold;--the most vulgar young
person I ever met! Do you know that he is meddling with your father's
affairs in a most uncalled-for--most--" And being at a loss for an