“Oh yes, in some scuggy houses,” he said, “but not in Adams’s. It’s thought frightfully bad form in Adams’s!”
David fingered his packet of cigarettes nervously, conscious suddenly of the enormous gulf that yawned between a private and a public school, and yearning to bridge it over by every means in his power.
“I’ve got some cigarettes in my pocket,” he said.
“Oh, chuck them away,” said his friend, “or give them to a porter. It would be a rotten affair if any of the fellows in the house knew. You’d come here with a bad name.”
David’s face fell for a moment, for those were gold-tipped cigarettes, which he had thought would probably be so exceedingly the right thing. Hughes noticed this, and gave consolation, for really Blaize was extremely presentable.
“I say, Blazes,” he said, “I’m awfully glad to see you, and we’ll have a ripping time. But it’s best to tell you what’s the right thing and what isn’t, don’t you think?”
David responded cordially to this.
“Rather,” he said, “and it’s jolly good of you. Thanks, awfully. Do tell me if there’s anything else.”
Hughes gave him another critical glance, as solemn as a tailor’s when looking at the fit of a coat that he wants to be a credit to him.
“Oh well, that buttonhole,” he said. “I think I should take that out. Only tremendous swells wear them, and even then it’s rather ‘side.’ ”