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"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--"