“Rightly, I think. A masterpiece can always take care of itself. Can you guess what Gautier would have done had he sat here?”
“Smoked a cigarette,” said Jim’s mother.
“Precisely. He was so rational. Will you try one?”
Cheriton offered his case.
“I will, with pleasure, if you will try one of these,” said the wearer of the green frock, producing her own cigarette case. “They are not so expensive as yours, but they will be better for you.”
“Pourquoi? One finds it so hard to accept the less expensive things in life.”
“If one grows too much of a Sybarite,” said Jim’s mother, taking a sententious puff of her Egyptian cigarette, “one is apt to lose one’s touch.”
“That is so true,” said Cheriton, with a display of feeling that seemed almost unnecessary. “The only really unhappy man I ever knew was a chap who had the misfortune to ruin his palate with old brandy.”
There would have been silence had it not been for the rooks. Jim’s mother again thought she detected the pipe of the curlew. The sun had dipped a little closer to Gwydr’s shoulder.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Lascelles.”