She sighed again, and went back to the lecture she was composing. “The Influence of Dress on Modern Society.” Suddenly, she cocked her head and sniffed. She rose cautiously, as one who is about to trail suspicion. She went to the side-window, and peered out. From a little grape-arbor on the lawn, there floated to her the unmistakable odour of tobacco––yes, and she could see a curling wisp of smoke.
“Theodore!”
A pause. “Yes, dear.” Mr. Mix’s voice had taken on, some months ago, a permanent quality of langour; and never, since the day that he was laughed out of politics, had he regained his former dignity and impressiveness.
“Is that you––smoking again?”
“Why––”
“Are you? Answer me.”
“Why––yes, dear––I––”
“Come in here this minute.”
Mr. Mix emerged from the arbor. “Yes, dear?”