“Very true,” he agreed. “I am mixing snuff—an anxious business, Miss Taverner.”
She was momentarily diverted. “Snuff! Do all those jars contain snuff?”
“All of them.”
She cast an amazed, rather scornful glance round the shelves. “You have made it a life-study, I conjecture.”
“Very nearly. But these are not all for my own use. Come here.”
She came reluctantly. He led her round the room, pointing out jars and bottles to her notice. “That is Spanish Bran: it is generally the most popular. That is Macouba, a very strongly scented snuff, for flavouring only. This is Brazil, a large-grained snuff of a fine, though perhaps too powerful flavour. I use it merely to give tone to my mixture. In that bottle is the Regent’s own mixture. It is scented with Otto of Roses. Beside it is a snuff I keep for your sex. It is called Violet Strasbourg—a vile mixture, but generally much liked by females. The Queen uses it.” He took down the jar, and shook a little of the snuff into the palm of his hand, and held it out to her. “Try it.”
An idea had occurred to her. She raised her eyes to his face. “Do many ladies use snuff, Lord Worth?”
“No, not many. Some of the more elderly ones.”
She took a pinch from his hand and sniffed it cautiously. “I don’t like it very much. My father used King’s Martinique.”
“I keep a little of it for certain of my guests. Quite a pleasant snuff, but rather light in character.”