Sincerely yours,
DAVID.
Courtney eyed her narrowly as she stood for a moment looking into the fire before resuming her seat. He realized that her thoughts were far away and that they were not pleasant.
"It's queer," he said presently, "that you have never learned to smoke."
She started slightly at the sound of his voice. As she turned to sit down, he went on:
"Almost every girl I know smokes. I will not say that I like to see it,—especially in restaurants and all that sort of thing,—but it's rather jolly if there's a nice, cosy fire like this,—see what I mean? Sort of intimate, and friendly, and—soothing. Don't you want to try one now?"
"Thank you, no. If it weren't so shocking, I think I should like to learn how to smoke a pipe,—but I suppose that isn't to be thought of. Somehow I feel that a pipe might be a pal, a good old stand-by, or even a relative,—something to depend upon in all sorts of weather, fair and foul. I've noticed that the men on the place who smoke pipes appear to be contented and jolly and good humoured,—and efficient. Yes, I think I should like to smoke a pipe."
"Would you like me better if I cut out the cigarettes, and took up the pipe of peace—and contentment?" he inquired thoughtfully.
"I doubt it," she replied, smiling. "I can't imagine you smoking a pipe."
"Is that supposed to be flattering or scornful?"