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“SYDNEY,” said Mr. Stryver, on that selfsame night, or morning,
to his jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say
to you.” Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the
night before, and the night before that, and a good many nights in
succession, making a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver’s papers
before the setting in of the long vacation. The clearance was
effected at last; the Stryver arrears were handsomely fetched up;
everything was got rid of until November should come with its
fogs atmospheric and fogs legal, and bring grist to the mill again.
Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had
preceded the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition,
as he now pulled his turban off and threw it into the basin in which
he had steeped it at intervals for the last six hours.

“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the
portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the
sofa where he lay on his back.

“I am.”
“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.” “Do you?”
“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?” “I don’t feel
disposed to say much. Who is she?” “Guess.” “Do I know her?”
“Guess.” “I am not going to guess, at five o’clock in the morning,
with my brains frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me
to guess, you must ask me to dinner.” “Well then, I’ll tell you,”
said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting posture.

“Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
because you are such an insensible dog.” “And you,” returned
Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a sensitive and
poetical spirit.” “Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully,
“though I don’t prefer any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I
hope I know better), still I am a tenderer sort of fellow than you.”
“You are a luckier, if you mean that.” “I don’t mean that. I mean I
am a man of more-more--” “Say gallantry, while you are about
it,” suggested Carton.

“Well! I’ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said
Stryver, inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who
cares more to be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable,
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