“Thank you. My tobacconist—I must ask you to visit his shop—receives just a few cases of a very special cigar; I have at least two-thirds of them, sometimes more; when you dine with me I'll give you one. This is Chartreuse, I think. My wine merchant knows a man whose cousin is one of the monks. Now the monks set aside the very cream of the liqueur, if I may so speak, for themselves. This liqueur cannot be bought in the open market. You may go up to London prepared to write a cheque for any figure you may like to name, and I will defy you to buy a bottle. I never have any other. It is really quite delicious. I daresay I could get you some.”
Mr. Brookes expressed thanks for the amiable offer, and both men smoked on in silence.
“Do you play billiards?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
Inwardly they congratulated themselves. Presently Mr. Brookes said: “I hear you have been staying with my sister, Mrs. Haltom. You were shooting there, were you not?”
“Yes, they were kind enough to ask me. Very nice shooting they have, too.”
“I hear that you have gone in for rearing pheasants.”
“Yes; we shot a hundred brace last year.”
The conversation dropped, and in an impressive silence both men wondered what they had better say to lead honourably up to the subject they had come to speak on.