So Lillian took his bag of tobacco out of the case which also held the pipe, filled the bowl and brought it to him.
He kissed her on the spot—what else could he do?
“A match, please, dear, since you insist upon it—I am out of them.”
“And the holder is also empty—stay, here is a scrap of paper that will do.”
She took a piece out of the waste basket and, without looking at it, twisted a lighter.
This she held in the gas jet, and, lighted, brought it over to Joe, who calmly laid it on his pipe, puffed a few times, and then, blowing out the flame, knocked the red ashes off the lighter, laying it on the table for possible use again.
Then he eyed his wife quizzically.
She was looking at him with a smile.
“I feel like a brute, Lillian, to inflict such a torment upon you. Say the word, and the whole thing goes forever.”
“Not I,” she replied; “I never knew how fragrant the odor was. If you must smoke, my husband, you shall do it as other gentlemen do, in your own home, but always smoke the best cigars and few of them.”