“By the way,” cried Mrs. Saumarez to the vicar, “do you smoke?”
He pleaded guilty to a pipe.
“Then you can smoke a cigar. Françoise packed a box among my belongings—the remnants of some forgotten festivity in the Savoy. Do try one. If you like it, may I send you the others?”
The vicar discovered that the gift would be costly—nearly forty Villar y Villars, of exquisite flavor.
“Do you know that you are giving me five pounds?” he laughed.
“I never learn the price of these things. I am so glad they are good. You will enjoy them.”
“It tickles a poor country vicar to hear you talk so easily of Lucullian feasts, Mrs. Saumarez. What must the banquet have been, when the cigars cost a half-crown each!”
“Oh, I am not hard up. Colonel Saumarez had only his army pay, but my estates lie near Hamburg, and you know how that port has grown of recent years.”
“Do you never reside there?”
Mrs. Saumarez inclined a pink-lined parasol so that its reflected tint mingled with the rush of color which suffused her face. Had the worthy vicar given a moment’s thought to the matter, he would have known that his companion wished she had bitten her tongue before it wagged so freely.