I stammered something—dashed if I know what—and blinked a little gloomily as she drew a brisk fire from the flame I tendered.
Odd thing, by Jove; here I had been going to dinners, world without end, where fellows' wives and girls and sisters smoked cigarettes, and I never had thought a thing about it. But now, somehow, I didn't like it for her. Sort of thing well enough for other chaps' girls and sisters, you know, but—well, this was different, by Jove! Devilish queer thing, that, what a lot of things seem the caper for them that we don't like for "our own," eh?
And yet—oh, I say, she certainly did look fetching about it—downright bewitching, you know! I think maybe it was because she didn't fumble the thing as if she was afraid of it—as if it was just a red hot coal and going to burn her. Most of them do, you know. No, this girl really seemed to enjoy it. Inhaled the whole thing at three draws and reached for another.
"Do—er—you smoke much?" I ventured anxiously. "Cigarettes, you know?"
She pulled a sparkling half-inch as she shook her little head. I felt awfully relieved. "Not for me," she remarked carelessly. "I prefer a pipe."
"Pipe!" I repeated feebly.
The golden head inclined. "Bet you! Good old, well-seasoned brier for mine—well-caked and a little strong." Puff-puff. "Oh, damn your patent sanitary pipes, I say!"
And as backward I collapsed upon the cushions, she threw her leg over the arm of her chair and shot two long cones of smoke from her dainty nostrils.