"Don't light up," he said—she was feeling along the top of the teak-wood rack for matches—"Don't you think this is nicer?"
In the shadow, and half-turned from him as it was, he could not see her face nor the smile that swept across it as he spoke.
He flung himself on the seat between the two windows, and she sank upon a low, old-fashioned stool before him, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her two slim hands. They talked commonplaces for a space, and gradually silence fell upon them. After a while he fumbled for his tobacco and little book of cigarette papers.
Divining the purpose of his search she glanced over her shoulder and asked archly in a half-whisper:
"Wouldn't you rather have a made one?"
She rose before he could reply, and took down from the rack across the corner a Japanese jar into the depths of which she plunged her hand. She held out to him a half-dozen of the little white tubes. Selecting one he lighted it.
Puffing contentedly: "Doesn't your mother mind?" he asked.
She shook her head and sat on the circular seat beside him.
"She's not here," she added. "There's a social at the church; she's there...."
"Oh," he muttered.