And so little objection had Perch to being deferential in the last degree, that if he might have laid himself at Mr Dombey's feet, or might have called him by some such title as used to be bestowed upon the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, he would have been all the better pleased.
As this honour would have been an innovation and an experiment, Perch was fain to content himself by expressing as well as he could, in his manner, You are the light of my Eyes.

You are the Breath of my Soul.

You are the commander of the Faithful Perch! With this imperfect happiness to cheer him, he would shut the door softly, walk away on tiptoe, and leave his great chief to be stared at, through a dome-shaped window in the leads, by ugly chimney-pots and backs of houses, and especially by the bold window of a hair-cutting saloon on a first floor, where a waxen effigy, bald as a Mussulman in the morning, and covered, after eleven o'clock in the day, with luxuriant hair and whiskers in the latest Christian fashion, showed him the wrong side of its head for ever.
Between Mr Dombey and the common world, as it was accessible through the medium of the outer office--to which Mr Dombey's presence in his own room may be said to have struck like damp, or cold air--there were two degrees of descent.

Mr Carker in his own office was the first step; Mr Morfin, in his own office, was the second.

Each of these gentlemen occupied a little chamber like a bath-room, opening from the passage outside Mr Dombey's door.