“No thanks, I'll do it. There are some cigarettes on the mantelpiece.”
Anthony went to get one. As he was taking it, he looked into the mirror over the fireplace, and saw Sergius—while removing his overcoat—transfer something from it to the left breast pocket of his evening coat.
He wanted still to feel his heart beat against that tiny weapon, still to hear—with each pulse of his own heart—the silence, not yet alive, but so soon to be alive, of that other heart.
And, as Anthony glanced into the mirror, he said to himself, “I was right!”
He withdrew his eyes from the glass and lit his cigarette. Sergius joined him.
“I'm in the blues to-night,” Anthony said, puffing at his cigarette.
“Are you?”
“Yes—been down in the East End. The misery there is ghastly.”
“It's just as bad in the West End, only different in kind. You're smoking your cigarette all down one side.”