What was he to do?
The only way in which Mr.Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side.

To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted.

Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage and looked out.
Mr.Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay.

Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their 'back-hair.' However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic lighthouse in a particularly small piece of water.
'Bless my soul!' thought Mr.Pickwick, 'what a dreadful thing!' 'Hem!' said the lady; and in went Mr.Pickwick's head with automaton-like rapidity.
'I never met with anything so awful as this,' thought poor Mr.Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap.

'Never.