You've told your affair, and I'll tell mine.

I dare say I'll feel all the better for it." "Drive on, then, old man." Dacres rose, took a couple of glasses of beer in quick succession, then resumed his seat, then picked out a cigar from the box with unusual fastidiousness, then drew a match, then lighted the cigar, then sent out a dozen heavy volumes of smoke, which encircled him so completely that he became quite concealed from Hawbury's view.

But even this cloud did not seem sufficient to correspond with the gloom of his soul.

Other clouds rolled forth, and still others, until all their congregated folds encircled him, and in the midst there was a dim vision of a big head, whose stiff, high, curling, crisp hair, and massive brow, and dense beard, seemed like some living manifestation of cloud-compelling Jove.
For some time there was silence, and Hawbury said nothing, but waited for his friend to speak.
At last a voice was heard--deep, solemn, awful, portentous, ominous, sorrow-laden, weird, mysterious, prophetic, obscure, gloomy, doleful, dismal, and apocalyptic.
"_Hawbury!_" "Well, old man ?" "HAWBURY!" "All right." "Are you listening ?" "Certainly." "_Well--I'm--married!_" Hawbury sprang to his feet as though he had been shot.
"What!" he cried.
"_I'm married!_" "You're what?
Married?
_You! married!_ Scone Dacres! not you--not _married ?_" "_I'm married!_" "Good Lord!" "_I'm married_!" Hawbury sank back in his seat, overwhelmed by the force of this sudden and tremendous revelation.

For some time there was a deep silence.
Both were smoking.