“I never have a light,” said I; “I detest glare, hate snuffing a candle, and can't endure the thought of patronizing Russia and her tallow.”
“Could n't we have a bit of fire, then?” asked he.
“Fire before Christmas!” exclaimed I. “Are we in Tobolsk? What Sybarite talks of fire in Paris at this season?”
“I really am ambitious of seeing you, Monsieur,” said the other: “can we not compass this object without any violence to your feelings?”
“Have you a cigar-case?” said I.
“Yes.”
“Well, strike a light; and here 's a letter which you may set fire to: you can thus make an inspection of me by 'inch of paper.'”
He laughed pleasantly at the conceit, and lighted the letter, by the aid of which, as he held it above his head, he took a rapid survey of the chamber and its contents, myself being the chief movable it boasted.
“Of a truth, my friend,” said he, “this apartment has nothing superfluous about it.”
“Cool and airy,” said I, calmly, “with a magnificent view of red-tiled roofs and chimney-pots.”