“Well?” he suggested, holding it from his lips till she had spoken.
“I can think of nothing you care for sufficiently to wish you.”
“Nothing?”
“Unless,” with sudden mischief, “I wish you a comfortable bed all the year round—and pleasant dreams, Louis.”
“That is much,” he answered dryly as he drew a cloud of smoke.
The doctor became anticipative.
Ruth’s embarrassment was evident as she turned and offered him a cigar.
“Do you smoke?” she asked, holding out the box.
“Like a chimney,” he replied, looking at her, but taking none, “and in the same manner as other common mortals.”
She stood still, but withdrew her hand a little as if repelling the hint his words conveyed; whereupon he immediately selected a cigar, saying as he did so, “So you were born in summer,—the time of all good things. Well, ‘Thy dearest wish, wish I thee,’ and may it not pass in the smoking!”