“Mr. Packard, this is my friend Mr. Hawkins,” said Defarge.
Hawkins put out his hand, which the medical student accepted. The grip of the scar-faced youth was soft as velvet, yet hard as iron. His hand was the hand of a trained athlete, with every inch of him in perfect condition. More and more Packard realized that the stranger was uncommon.
“I have just been telling Mr. Packard of you,” said Defarge. “That is, I mentioned you to him. Mr. Packard is a medico.”
“Indeed?” said the stranger, in a voice that was pleasant, yet suggested power. “Why is it that medical students seem prone to indulge in stimulants? Is it because they acquire the habit by taking liquor to brace their nerves before going into the dissecting-room?”
He had looked at Packard with a pair of intensely piercing eyes, and Roland shivered a bit before that deep stare.
“I presume you judge by the decanter here,” said Packard, with a motion toward the table. “Well, your friend Defarge put that there.”
“I judge from your appearance,” said the newcomer frankly. “Your face shows that you drink more than is good for you.”
Packard frowned. He did not fancy being told his failings thus directly by a stranger.
“That is my business,” he said. “I presume I have a right to drink as much as I like!”
“No, you have not.”