"A pipe."
She turned from the fire and shrugged her shoulders. "Couldn't you get a cigar? Why do you smoke that awful thing?"
"It is an altar of the past, and on it I burn the memories of its day," he answered, smiling.
"Well, I think I would get a new altar and burn incense for the present! Oh, but I've had the stupidest evening."
"Wasn't the play good?"
"No, it was talk, talk, with a stress laid on nothing. And then my escort wasn't particularly entertaining."
"Who?"
"Oh, a Mr. Somebody. What have you been doing all the evening?"
"Something that I found to be worse than useless. Father and I have been locking horns over the—not exactly the labor question, but over the wretchedness of working-women."
"What do you know about the wretchedness of working-women?" she asked.