“It is for its good,” he said. “It will make it feel sick, and so when it grows up it will instinctively dislike the smell of tobacco and so not spend its money, like me, on cigarettes. Talking of which, I’ve run short. Hope you’ve got some?”
“I’m smoking my last. What’s to be done?”
“Go into the town and buy some. Damn, it’s Sunday! Oh, there’s Jelf! Got any cigarettes, Judas?”
Jelf had lately been very strong on what he called effete Christian superstitions. Nobody cared in the least what Jelf believed, but it was obvious that his name was Judas. He strolled on to the grass below the window.
“Yes, plenty, thank you,” he said, “if you were speaking to me. But my name is Jelf.”
“I know. Do be a good chap, and bring us a handful. Jim and I have run out. You can hang yourself afterwards. I’ll even give you some tea first, and you can talk to a pretty lady who’s coming to tea, too.”
“Who’s that?” asked Jim.
“Friend of my mother’s, Lady Gurtner. She’s motoring in from her house somewhere near for chapel. About the cigarettes now. You aren’t Judas, Jelf. I can’t imagine what I was thinking about. But for God’s sake fetch some cigarettes, and then you needn’t hang yourself.”
“You’re quite sure?” asked Jelf.
“Absolutely certain. Thanks, awfully.”