“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.  The clouds rolled forth from the lips of each, and curled over their heads, and twined in voluminous folds, and gathered over them in dark, impenetrable masses.  Even so rested the clouds of doubt, of darkness, and of gloom over the soul of each, and those which were visible to the eye seemed to typify, symbolize, characterize, and body forth the darker clouds that overshadowed the mind.

“I’m married!” repeated Dacres, who now seemed to have become like Poe’s raven, and all his words one melancholy burden bore.

“You were not married when I was last with you?” said Hawbury at last, in the tone of one who was recovering from a fainting fit.

“Yes, I was.”

“Not in South America?”

“Yes, in South America.”

“Married?”

“Yes, married.”

“By Jove!”

“Yes; and what’s more, I’ve been married for ten years.”

“Ten years!  Good Lord!”

“It’s true.”

“Why, how old could you have been when you got married?”

“A miserable, ignorant, inexperienced dolt, idiot, and brat of a boy.”

“By Jove!”

“Well, the secret’s out; and now, if you care to hear, I will tell you all about it.”

“I’m dying to hear, dear boy; so go on.”

And at this Scone Dacres began his story.

CHAPTER VIII.

A MAD WIFE.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” said Scone Dacres; “but don’t laugh, for matters like these are not to be trifled with, and I may take offense.”

“Oh, bother, as if I ever laugh at any thing serious!  By Jove! no.  You don’t know me, old chap.”

“All right, then.  Well, to begin.  This wife that I speak of happened to me very suddenly.  I was only a boy, just out of Oxford, and just into my fortune.  I was on my way to Paris—­my first visit—­and was full of no end of projects for enjoyment.  I went from Dover, and in the steamer there was the most infernally pretty girl.  Black, mischievous eyes, with the devil’s light in them; hair curly, crispy, frisky, luxuriant, all tossing over her head and shoulders, and an awfully enticing manner.  A portly old bloke was with her—­her father, I afterward learned.  Somehow my hat blew off.  She laughed.  I laughed.  Our eyes met.  I made a merry remark.  She laughed again; and there we were, introduced.  She gave me a little felt hat of her own.  I fastened it on in triumph with a bit of string, and wore it all the rest of the way.