"Come, twist up your natural hair and let me see you in this wig." Tristram obeyed, and his father fell back in astonishment.

"It is extraordinary!" "Certainly I perceive the likeness," admitted Tristram, contemplating himself in the mirror that hung above the mantelpiece.
"It is nothing to what could be produced by the merest touch or two of art.

Give me five minutes, and I warrant you shall deceive the waitress here." He drew the curtain, took down a candle from the mantelshelf, lit it and set it on the table; then, picking up the cork of an empty bottle, held it to the flame for two seconds or so and began to operate on his son's face.
"Ah!" he said, "to think that each wrinkle, each line, that I copy with a piece of cork has been traced in the original by a separate sorrow! Tristram, your presence makes me young again, young and childish.

And in return I make you old--a pretty recompense!" Tristram, whose nature was profoundly serious, stood up very stiff and blinked at the hand which wandered over his face, touching it here and there as softly as with a feather.
"Are we not wasting time ?" he protested.
"Not at all: and to prove it, I am about to send you downstairs to order horses.

It is wonderful! I wager the people of the inn shall not know you.