‘Slaughter,’ said the captain, ‘a cigar?’
Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell smoke without a strong disposition to cough. The cigars were introduced; the captain was a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs. The apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung in heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath. It was all of no use—out came the cough.
‘Bless my soul!’ said the captain, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs. You dislike smoking?’
‘Oh, no; I don’t indeed,’ said Charlotta.
‘It makes you cough.’
‘Oh dear no.’
‘You coughed just now.’
‘Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?’
‘Somebody coughed,’ said the captain.
‘I certainly thought so,’ said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it.