get on.”

“You don’t get on with your account of your matrimonial

intentions,” answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you

would keep to that. As to mewill you never understand that I am

incorrigible?”

He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.

“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend’s

answer, delivered in no very soothing tone.

“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney

Carton. “Who is the lady?”

“Now, don’t let my announcement of the name make you

uncomfortable, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with

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ostentatious friendliness for the disclosure he was about to make,

“because I know you don’t mean half you say; and if you meant it

all, it would be of no importance. I make this little preface, because

you once mentioned the young lady to me in slighting terms.”

“I did?”

“Certainly; and in these chambers.”

Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his

complacent friend; drank his punch and looked at his complacent

friend.

“You made mention of the young lady as a golden haired doll.

The young lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any

sensitiveness or delicacy of feeling that kind of way, Sydney, I

might have been a little resentful of your employing such a

designation; but you are not