The Binghams lived on the side of Hans Place nearest to Knightsbridge. The shortest way, consequently, into the high road, was to cut down through the small streets instead of going out into Sloane Street. Fred Bingham, however, after turning out of Hans Place, did not take the most direct way, but turning through two or three narrow lanes, he came out into New Street, which he followed till he came to Stephen Walker’s shop, where he turned in. Carry was alone in the shop, and it was at once evident by the girl’s manner that Fred Bingham was a regular customer; and by her slightly heightened colour that he was by no means an unwelcome one. “Good morning, Carry; looking as bright and pretty as ever, I see.” “What nonsense you do talk to be sure, Mr. Bingham!” the girl laughed. “I shall certainly give up coming into the shop altogether, and put father in here from half-past nine till you are gone, if you don’t give up talking rubbish.” “Give me a cigar, Carry. No, not those things; one out of my special box; thank you. Now you would not be so cruel as that, Carry, I am quite sure. I should pine visibly if you hid your bright face. I am almost as thin as I can be now, but I should become a candidate for the at present vacant situation of walking skeleton, in no time.” “Oh! I dare say,” the girl retorted, “you would not eat a mouthful the less at your dinner, I’d wager, whether you saw my bright face or not.” “You are quite wrong, Carry, I can assure you. What are you working at so industriously?” “Never mind,” the girl said, laughing. “Never ask questions about things which don’t concern you. You know the rest of it.” “Quite well, Carry. But that appears to me to be a masculine garment, and therefore it is possible that it may concern me; because if it is intended for a favoured swain, I shall infallibly slay him.” “You need not do that, it is only a shirt for father. Besides, I have told you fifty times I have no favoured swain, as you call it.” “Oh yes, I know you have; but you see I have a great difficulty in believing you.” “Now, Mr. Bingham, really if you go on like that, I shall go into the next room,” the girl said, making, however, no effort to rise. “Really, Carry, it is very hard on a man that he may not say what he thinks.” “Yes, but you don’t think it” “I do think it, Carry; on my honour I think you the very prettiest girl——” “There now, sir, you see I am obliged to go,” Carry said, really getting up this time. “But then that’s fortunate; I can hear a ‘bus; so I am well rid of you.” “Bye bye, Carry; I must be up in town this morning in good time, or I would stay for the next hour, if it were only to plague you.” And so he was gone. Carry did not take up her work again for some time, but sat thinking quietly, till her father came into the shop from the room behind, when she began to work assiduously.