The cigars were passed and lighted. Before returning the case, the driver frankly inspected the fine leather toy with the tiny monogram in one corner.
"That's all right," he approved, returning it to its owner. "I was afraid you'd pull out a little gold box of cigarettes."
"Why?" amused.
"Oh, I don't know, my luck, I guess."
"You don't like them?"
"Me? I got a pipe three years old that holds some tobacco—that for me. But this cigar is all right. Ever try a pipe?"
"Yes."
The driver leaned back comfortably against the spare tire strapped beside the car, gazing up at the gray, cold sky.
"A pipe, my feet on the kitchen stove, the kids and the missus—me for that, nights."
Adriance looked at him with startled scrutiny. Almost he could have imagined that Elsie Murray had come to the man's side and prompted him. What, was it then real and usual, that homely content she once had painted so vividly? Did most men have such homes?