'Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn'orth. Then lay on hot
water, and call it tea. Drink it,' said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice,
directing Mr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little
party, with Mrs. Dowler on his arm. Into the tea-room Mr.
Pickwick turned; and catching sight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed
his way through the crowd and welcomed him with ecstasy.
'My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba-ath is favoured.
Mrs. Dowler, you embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on
your feathers. Re-markable!'
'Anybody here?' inquired Dowler suspiciously.
'Anybody! The ELITE of Ba-ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the
old lady in the gauze turban?'
'The fat old lady?' inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.
'Hush, my dear sir--nobody's fat or old in Ba-ath. That's the
Dowager Lady Snuphanuph.'
'Is it, indeed?' said Mr. Pickwick.
'No less a person, I assure you,' said the Master of the Ceremonies.
'Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the
splendidly-dressed young man coming this way?'
'The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?'
inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'The same. The richest young man in Ba-ath at this moment.
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