“Tobacco?”
“Please.”
“Rickie’s is invariably—filthy.”
“Who says I know Rickie?”
“Well, you know his aunt. It’s a possible link. Be gentle with Rickie. Don’t knock him down if he doesn’t think it’s a nice morning.”
The other was silent.
“Do you know him well?”
“Kind of.” He was not inclined to talk. The wish to smoke was very violent in him, and Ansell noticed how he gazed at the wreaths that ascended from bowl and stem, and how, when the stem was in his mouth, he bit it. He gave the idea of an animal with just enough soul to contemplate its own bliss. United with refinement, such a type was common in Greece. It is not common today, and Ansell was surprised to find it in a friend of Rickie’s. Rickie, if he could even “kind of know” such a creature, must be stirring in his grave.
“Do you know his wife too?”
“Oh yes. In a way I know Agnes. But thank you for this tobacco. Last night I nearly died. I have no money.”