blackish tobacco. Then he lighted it, and after sending forth one or
two loud puffs of smoke, he said, with an air of sovereign
satisfaction:

"A quiet, comfortable room--a friend--a good pipe after dinner--and
no care for the morrow. That's what I like."

Hermann cast a sidelong glance at his companion, and was painfully
struck at his appearance. The tall gaunt frame in its stooping
attitude; the grayish hair and sad, fixed look; the thin legs
crossed one over the other; the elbow resting on the knee and
supporting the chin,--in a word, the whole strange figure, as it sat
there, bore no resemblance to Henry Warren, the friend of his youth.
This man was a stranger, a mysterious being even. Nevertheless, the
affection he felt for his friend was not impaired; on the contrary,
pity entered into his heart. "How ill the world must have used him,"
thought Hermann, "to have thus disfigured him!" Then he said aloud:

"Now, then, let me have your story, unless you prefer to hear mine
first."

He strove to speak lightly, but he felt that the effort was not
successful. As to Warren, he went on smoking quietly, without saying
a word. The long silence at last became painful. Hermann began to
feel an uncomfortable sensation of distress in presence of the
strange guest he had brought to his home. After a few minutes he
ventured to ask for the third time, "Will you make up your mind to
speak, or must I begin?"

Warren gave vent to a little noiseless laugh. "I am thinking how I