Had he been of those who smoke all day he would have pulled out his pipe, and ten to one would have found the thing lurking there next his tobacco; but he thought of the meal coming on, and much more did he think with dread that it would be breaking some mysterious etiquette of country houses if he were to smoke a pipe. He would not dare to do it till he saw some one of his betters at the same work. For the same reason, after he had heard them going towards the dining-room and had joined them, he was too nervous to put his hands in his pockets in a gesture of repose. He kept them dangling in his extreme anxiety to commit no solecism. He moved nervously about amid the sullen silence of the rest and wondered a little why the burst of geniality upon the part of the man of gems should have dried up so suddenly. For not a word more did the Professor speak to him; and all through luncheon McTaggart sat there in the same terror and the same misfortune of soul, never daring to speak some artificial word during the rare moments when anyone broke the silence.
They had not yet risen from table; he was still wondering what one did at the end of luncheon in the houses of the great—at what point one got up, whether immediately after one's host or simultaneously with one's host; whether the women went out first, as he knew they did at dinner; whether it was his duty to open the door for them—when Lord Galton pulled out his pipe, filled it deliberately enough, and lit it. After the easy manners of our happy times he slowly and with deliberation blew a cloud of smoke across the board which wreathed itself, not ungracefully, about the venerable head of Aunt Amelia. So natural an action was followed by his host, who in turn thoughtfully pulled out his own pipe and lit it, as he rose to fetch himself wine: he mixed tobacco and wine, did Humphrey de Bohun.
"Then," thought McTaggart to himself, in an agony of desire for tobacco, "it seems this kind of thing can be done,"—and he felt for his pipe, and pulled out his pouch.
Mr. McTaggart discovers the Emerald.
Now there happened to be in the room at that moment an Angel. He had come to Paulings express to counteract the Devil who had been putting in such strong work on the Professor, and the Angel saved the quill driver, whom, for his poverty, he loved. For that innocent, finding something that felt like his slab of chocolate in among his tobacco, and knowing himself to be well capable of having put it there, was just about to pull it out, and was already speculating on what sort of flavour chocolate gave to Bondman—or Bondman to chocolate—when the Angel seized his wrist and pinned it. He did not know the Angel was doing this—we never know our luck—he could not have told you what happened, except that he hesitated, and being of the opposite sex, was not lost. But for the Angel, he would have pulled out the thing before them all, and said, "Hallo, what's this?" and there would have been an end of McTaggart. Instead of which the Angel, with angelic swiftness, put a thought into his head.
"Don't pull out that lump of chocolate! It will make you look a fool. The great don't eat chocolate, except out of large expensive wooden boxes with Japanese pictures outside; elaborate boxes. The rich do not carry half-broken slabs of chocolate in their pockets—still less in their tobacco pouches!"
Therefore was it that McTaggart did not take out the lump, whatever it was; he grasped a fingerful of tobacco and peered down with one eye into the recesses of the pouch. When he saw what was there, his heart stopped beating! For a moment he felt faint and giddy.... But the angel firmly put the pouch back again, leaving the tobacco in his fingers, and with shaking hand he filled his pipe, and with shaking hand he lit it!
What the devil?