"We must celebrate this meeting," she suggested with another smile, "as disciples of the pen."
She filled the two little glasses with what afterwards proved to be yellow Chartreuse, and held one glass towards me.
"Pray take this," she suggested, "it will be good for you after being out in the damp air."
I took the tiny glass of yellow liqueur in which the candlelight sparkled, and sipped it; it was superb.
"Now," she continued, indicating an armchair on the farther side of the fireplace, "sit and let us talk."
I took the chair, and she opened the silver box of cigarettes and pushed them towards me.
"I presume you smoke?" she suggested. "I smoke myself habitually; I find it a great resource and comfort. I lived for a long time in a country where all the ladies smoked."
I took a cigarette, lit a match, and handed her a light; she lit her cigarette with a grace born of long habit.
"Now," she said, as I puffed contentedly, "I can tell you what I have to say in comfort."
I certainly thought I had made a good exchange from the raw air of the street to this comfortable fireside.