Micklethwaite, cigar in mouth, threw his legs over the side of the easy-chair in which he was sitting.
'Now,' he began gravely, 'I don't mind telling you that your conjecture was right.

I _am_ going to be married.' 'Well,' said the other, 'you have reached the age of discretion.

I must suppose that you know what you are about.' 'Yes, I think I do.

The story is unexciting.

I am not a romantic person, nor is my future wife.