"Hullo, my son!" responded Hone, who, clad still more airily, was exercising his great muscles with dumb-bells before plunging into his morning tub.
Duncombe seated himself to watch the operations with eyes of keen appreciation.
"By Jove," he said admiringly at length, "you are a mighty specimen! I believe you'll live for ever."
"Not on this plaguey little planet, let us trust!" said Hone, speaking through his teeth by reason of his exertions.
"You ought to marry," said Duncombe, still intently observant. "Giants like you have no right to remain single in these degenerate days."
"Faith!" scoffed Hone. "It's an age of feather-weights, and I'm out of date entirely."
He thumped down his dumb-bells, and stood up with arms outstretched. He saw the open admiration in his friend's eyes, and laughed at it.
But Duncombe remained serious.
"Why don't you get married, Pat?" he said.
Hone's arms slowly dropped. His brown face sobered. But the next instant he smiled again.