My father is greatly admired." "Go on, Prince! Go on!" said Mr.Turveydrop, standing with his back to the fire and waving his gloves condescendingly.

"Go on, my son!" At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went on.
Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kit, dancing; sometimes played the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant.

His distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the fire, a model of deportment.
"And he never does anything else," said the old lady of the censorious countenance.

"Yet would you believe that it's HIS name on the door-plate ?" "His son's name is the same, you know," said I.
"He wouldn't let his son have any name if he could take it from him," returned the old lady.

"Look at the son's dress!" It certainly was plain--threadbare--almost shabby.