Her grandfather, after making some extremely uncomplimentary comments upon the weather, had lowered his green-shaded electric light and established himself beneath it with his book.
He looked across at the child, who was situated as before at the table, her crossed feet, in their spring-heeled shoes, dangling beneath.
“May I smoke, Jewel?” he asked, as he took a cigar from the case. He asked the question humorously, but the reply was serious.
“Oh yes, grandpa, of course; this is your room; but you know nobody likes tobacco naturally except a worm.”
Mr. Evringham's deep-set eyes widened. “Is it possible? Well, we're all worms.”
Jewel smiled fondly at him, her head a little on one side, in its characteristic attitude.
“You're such a joker,” she returned.
“If you really dislike smoke,” said the broker after a minute, “perhaps you'd better take your letter up to your room.”
“I don't mind it,” she returned. “Father used to smoke. It's only a little while since it gave him up.”
“You mean since he gave it up.”