“So am I,” assented Sylvia. “It seems real good to have him here again, and he's dreadful tickled with his new rooms. I guess he's glad he wasn't shoved off onto Mrs. Jim Jones or Mrs. Sam Elliot. I don't believe he has an idea of getting married to any girl alive. He ain't a mite silly over the girls, if they are all setting their caps at him. I'm sort of sorry for Lucy Ayres. She's a pretty girl, and real ladylike, and I believe she'd give all her old shoes to get him.”
“Look out, he'll hear you,” charged Henry. Their room was directly under the one occupied by Horace.
Presently the odor of a cigar floated into their open window.
“I should know he'd got home. Smoking is an awful habit,” Sylvia said, with a happy chuckle.
“He'd do better if he smoked a pipe,” said Henry. Henry smoked a pipe.
“If a man is going to smoke at all, I think he had better smoke something besides a smelly old pipe,” said Sylvia. “It seems to me, with all our means, you might smoke cigars now, Henry. I saw real nice ones advertised two for five cents the other day, and you needn't smoke more than two a day.”
Henry sniffed slightly.
“I suppose you think women don't know anything about cigars,” said Sylvia; “but I can smell, anyhow, and I know Mr. Allen is smoking a real good cigar.”
“Yes, he is,” assented Henry.
“And I don't believe he pays more than a cent apiece. His cigars have gilt papers around them, and I know as well as I want to they're cheap; I know a cent apiece is a much as he pays. He smokes so many he can't pay more than that.”