opportunity of her being from home, to beg to speak to you.”

There was a blank silence.

“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your

chair here, and speak on.”

He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking

on less easy.

“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate

here,” so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope

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the topic on which I am about to touch may not” He was stayed

by the Doctor’s putting out his hand to stop him. When he had

kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:

“Is Lucie the topic?”

“She is.”

“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for

me to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”

“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love,

Doctor Manette!” he said deferentially.

There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:

“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”

His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that

it originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that

Charles Darnay hesitated.

“Shall I go on, sir?”

Another blank.

“Yes, go on.”

“You anticipate what I would say, though you can not know

how earnestly I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my