Celie elevated her nose and sniffed as she came out. "O father, what a horrid smell of tobacco you are making!"
"It is almost inevitable," he said, apologetically; "you see it is tobacco I am smoking."
If it had been asafœtida, Celie could not have appeared more disgusted.
"I thought your young thieves smoked at that club of yours," said her father.
"Oh, yes; but that is different," she answered.
"Yes, it is different," chuckled her parent, thinking of what his tobacco cost him.
Then Celie went on to explain all about Cleaver's boy and his trouble, telling the sad tale of the "failing" of Janet of Inverness, as, well—as I should like to have the tale of my weaknesses told, if it were necessary that they should be told at all.
Her father smoked and listened. Sometimes he lifted a snail from the leaf of a cabbage with care. Anon he kicked a stone sideways off the path, and ever he smoked, listened, and nodded without comment.
"These are all your orders, ma'am?" he asked slowly, when his daughter had finished.
"I'll pull your ears, father, now I will," said she, with equal want of connection.