seven o'clock
`` He 's in his studio , '' said Mr. Mossrose . `` Well , then , fellow , go and fetch him ! '' And Mossrose , thinking it must be the Lord Chamberlain , or Doctor Praetorius at least , walked into the studio , where the perfumer was seated in a very glossy old silk dressing-gown , his fair hair hanging over his white face , his double chin over his flaccid whity-brown shirt-collar , his pea-green slippers on the hob , and on the fire the pot of chocolate which was simmering for his breakfast . A lazier fellow than poor Eglantine it would be hard to find ; whereas , on the contrary , Woolsey was always up and brushed , spick-and-span , at seven o'clock ; and had gone through his books , and given out the work for the journeymen , and eaten a hearty breakfast of rashers of bacon , before Eglantine had put the usual pound of grease to his hair -LRB- his fingers were always as damp and shiny as if he had them in a pomatum-pot -RRB- , and arranged his figure for the day . `` Here 's a gent wants you in the shop , '' says Mr. Mossrose , leaving the door of communication wide open . `` Say I 'm in bed , Mr. Mossrose ; I 'm out of sperrets , and really can see nobody . '' `` It 's someone from Vindsor , I think ; he 's got the royal button , '' says Mossrose .