She laughed. "I don't know anything about cigarettes, really, but these seem so fresh."
"My dear," said I, "you could have said nothing more calculated to warm the cockles of my heart. You are a connoisseurs (very good indeed). These cigarettes are actually straight from the stable, I mean the Ottoman Empire. I shall send you a box this afternoon by Carter Paterson."
"You're very kind. But tell me, why is their paper brown?"
"Berry says it's swank. But then he would. As a matter of fact, it's maize. I like it myself: it's so nourishing. Besides, it goes so well with a blue suit. Talking of which, with a flowered dress and dark hair, it's absolutely it."
She stretched out a shapely hand, reflectively settling her frock. "White ones would match my gloves, though."
"They would. And the whites of your eggs—I mean eyes. I know. Oh, and your soft throat. But—"
"He said you were awful."
"You see, my dear, we live in an age of contrast. Women no longer play for safety in dress. They have begun to dare. And contrasts show imagination. Sometimes they're actually striking."
"While matches have to be struck."
"Like bargains. Exactly. They're passive, while contrasts are active. We're rather clever this morning, aren't you?"