"Splendid! Still, I think after all I will have a cigarette."
"A pipe's the thing," rumbled the paragon—"a pipe and a fistful of Bristol Bird's-eye."
"Oh no, thanks; not a pipe!" cried Chloe, hastily seizing a cigarette, which she understood the management of. "That's all right."
"Come and sit here," said the Duke, beckoning her to a divan.
He intended to use her as a stalking-horse, and to lull to sleep any suspicions which the paragon might have that he was being watched.
Chloe came to the divan puffing at her cigarette. Mr. Rodney frantically followed, and placed himself erect on a very small upright cane-chair. He was smoking an unlighted cigar, which he occasionally removed from his white lips, in order that he might blow rings of imaginary smoke into the air. The Duke strove to seem larky and at ease.
"Now the women are gone we can say what we like, eh?" he began.
"Yes," faltered Chloe; "we can say what we like now."
"A very good cigar this," cried Mr. Rodney with a jaunty air, that sat as naturally upon him as a matinée hat on the head of a major-general.