‘Can’t, sir; can’t!’ exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘Solomon Lucas, the Jew in the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, how many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, Pythagoras--all founders of clubs.’ ‘I know that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I cannot put myself in competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses.’ The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said-- ‘On reflection, Sir, I don’t know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity in his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to promise an exception in your case, sir--yes, I am quite certain that, on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so.’ ‘In that case,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I shall have great pleasure in coming.’ ‘But I waste your time, Sir,’ said the grave man, as if suddenly recollecting himself. ‘I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and your distinguished friends? Good-morning, Sir, I am proud to have beheld so eminent a personage--not a step sir; not a word.’ And without giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter stalked gravely away. Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr. Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy-ball there, before him. ‘Mrs. Pott’s going,’ were the first words with which he saluted his leader. ‘Is she?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘As Apollo,’ replied Winkle. ‘Only Pott objects to the tunic.’ ‘He is right. He is quite right,’ said Mr. Pickwick emphatically. ‘Yes; so she’s going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.’ ‘They’ll hardly know what she’s meant for; will they?’ inquired Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Of course they will,’ replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. ‘They’ll see her lyre, won’t they?’ ‘True; I forgot that,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘I shall go as a bandit,’ interposed Mr. Tupman. ‘What!’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start. ‘As a bandit,’ repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly. ‘You don’t mean to say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness at his friend--‘you don’t mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail?’ ‘Such _is_ my intention, Sir,’ replied Mr. Tupman warmly. ‘And why not, sir?’ ‘Because, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited--‘because you are too old, Sir.’ ‘Too old!’ exclaimed Mr. Tupman. ‘And if any further ground of objection be wanting,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, ‘you are too fat, sir.’ ‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, ‘this is an insult.’ ‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, ‘it is not half the insult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me.’ ‘Sir,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you’re a fellow.’