Anthony took it out of his mouth and threw it into the grate. He lit two or three matches, but held them so badly that they went out before he could ignite another cigarette. At last, inwardly cursing his nerves that made his hasty actions belie the determined calm of his face, he dropped the cigarette.
“I don't think I'll smoke before dinner,” he said. “Ah, here it is. And wine—champagne—that's good for you!”
“I shan't drink it. I hate to drink alone.”
“You shan't drink alone then.”
“What d'you mean?”
“I'll drink with you.”
“But you're a teetotaller.”
“I don't care to-night.”
Anthony spoke briefly and firmly. Sergius was amazed.