"Dang it!" breathed Sam, "how small the world is!" "Smiles, we must be friends.

Even if, for a paltry trifle of seven pounds fifteen and six, I am condemned by your master (whom you will excuse my terming a miscreant) to eke out the dregs of my worthless existence in this infernal yard--no, my loved Arabella, you will pardon me, but as a practical man I insist on facing the worst--even so I have found a congenial spirit, a co-mate and brother in exile, a Friend in my retreat Whom I can whisper: 'Solitude is sweet.' Pursue, my dear Smiles! You are young: hope sits on your helm and irradiates it.
For me, my bark is stranded, my fortunes shipwrecked, my career trickles out in the sands.

Nevertheless, take the advice of an Elder Brother, and pursue.

By the way"-- Mr.Mortimer drew from his breast-pocket the stump of a half-consumed cigar--"I regret that I have not its fellow to offer you; but could you oblige me with a match ?" Sam produced a couple of sulphur matches.
"I thank you." Mr.Mortimer lit and inhaled.

"A--ah!" he sighed between two luxurious puffs.