Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you--twenty minutes before seven to the moment--you'll not be so cruel as to disappoint the whole party, Mrs Nickleby ?' 'You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,' replied the worthy lady.
'Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,' urged Mr Pluck.
'Mrs Nickleby,' said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice, 'there is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence in what I am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard it--such is that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs Nickleby--he'd have me out before dinner-time.' Mrs Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had walked to the window; and Mr Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on: 'Your daughter has made a conquest--a conquest on which I may congratulate you.

Sir Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her devoted slave.

Hem!' 'Hah!' cried Mr Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the chimney-piece with a theatrical air.

'What is this! what do I behold!' 'What DO you behold, my dear fellow ?' asked Mr Pluck.
'It is the face, the countenance, the expression,' cried Mr Pyke, falling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; 'feebly portrayed, imperfectly caught, but still THE face, THE countenance, THE expression.' 'I recognise it at this distance!' exclaimed Mr Pluck in a fit of enthusiasm.

'Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of--' 'It is my daughter's portrait,' said Mrs Nickleby, with great pride.