“Possibly,” I replied, “but there are different opinions on that subject. A radical old minister once said that if the Lord had intended man to smoke, he would have put a chimney in the back of his head.”
“Humph! that old fool didn’t know much. If he had ever smoked—a—cigar like this—he—would—”
My young friend paused, and put his hand to the pit of his stomach.
“Why, my dear boy, you seem distressed. Really, you are quite pale. Pray, let me get you some—”
“Oh, it’s nothing, doctor, I—well, you see, I am not used to—to late hours,” said the poor little chap, with a painful effort to smile.
“Perhaps some fresh air might make you feel better,” I suggested, “I will raise another window.”
“N—no, never mind. I believe I’ll just step to the door for a moment, if you don’t object. I feel a little—”
I grasped the situation, and hastily escorted my visitor to the veranda.
Appreciating the delicacy of my guest’s position, I then discreetly returned to my sanctum and resumed my cigar. Certain peculiar sounds that came through the open door, confirmed my hasty diagnosis.
I waited until the tumultuous heavings of my young friend’s diaphragm had ceased, and then went out to ask him to return to the library, but he was nowhere to be seen. The “wise child” had gone!