"You are smoking?" she inquired. That habitual smile was on her lips, but her eyes were cold.
"Just—just a dry smoke,"—with a note of injured innocence.
"Your cigar is in your mouth," she persisted, "and yet you're not smoking."
At that, the florist took a forward step. "And my teeth are in my mouth," he answered boldly, "but I'm not eating."
Another woman might have shrunk from the impudence of his retort, or replied angrily. Mrs. Milo only advanced, with slow elegance, prepared again to put him on the defensive. "Why do I find you in this room?" she demanded.
"I'm just passing through—to the lawn."
"Do not pass through again."
"Well, I'd like to know about that," returned the florist, argumentatively. "When I mentioned passing through the Church, why, the Rector, he says to me——"
Mrs. Milo lifted a white hand to check him. "Never mind what Mr. Farvel said," she admonished sharply; then, with quick gentleness, "You know that he has lived here only little more than a year."
"Oh, I know."