“Yes. Why?”
Hugh subsided into a chair.
“Do be serious!” he said. “Peggy told me that one always had to check accounts and books if one wanted five shillings to go on with. She never has five shillings, I notice, or a purse to put them in if she had them, and I always have to pay her cabs. I’ve got all my books, haven’t I? Stable, garden, wine, men of the house. Yes. But here’s Miss Tremington’s cab from the station. I’m blowed if I’ll pay your maid’s cabs! Besides, she always looks at me as if I was a smut on her Roman nose.”
“I don’t think she takes you quite seriously,” said Edith. “And she can’t understand the master play-acting.”
“No more can the master,” said Hugh. “Tremington cab again. That’s seven shillings you owe me already.”
A long silence. Hugh, in a big chair, with its face to the fire and its back to his wife, thought he would be unobserved, and stealthily drew a cigarette from his pocket, which, under pretence of poking the fire, he lit, the tongs being used as poker, and the tongs carrying a red-hot coal. Smoking, though not actually prohibited, was strongly discouraged by Reuss, and Edith knew it. But by leaning forward he fancied he could smoke up the chimney, for the fire “drew” beautifully. Unfortunately the very perfection of the movement led to its detection, for, except for the noise of the poking of the fire, which was done with extreme violence, a silence so palpable accompanied his movements that it was clear that something was happening.
Edith only looked up for one quarter-second, and returned to her book.
“Seven and thirteen and six,” she said. “Hughie, hadn’t you better put it in the fire?”
Hugh felt singularly annoyed at the failure of his manœuvre.
“No, I hadn’t,” he said, “and if you allude, however distantly, to my smoking again, I shall go on till lunch.”