She laid them upon the tray, and now took out of the case a little copper lamp, a smaller lacquered box and a silver spatula, her jewelled fingers handling the queer implements with a familiarity bred of habit.
“What a strange woman!” whispered Rita to Pyne. “Is she an oriental?”
“Cuban-Jewess,” he replied in a low voice.
Mrs. Sin carefully lighted the lamp, which burned with a short, bluish flame, and, opening the lacquered box, she dipped the spatula into the thick gummy substance which it contained and twisted the little instrument round and round between her fingers, presently withdrawing it with a globule of chandu, about the size of a bean, adhering to the end. She glanced aside at Kilfane.
“Chinese way, eh?” she said.
She began to twirl the prepared opium above the flame of the lamp. From it a slight, sickly smelling vapor arose. No one spoke, but all watched her closely; and Rita was conscious of a growing, pleasurable excitement. When by evaporation the chandu had become reduced to the size of a small pea, and a vague spirituous blue flame began to dance round the end of the spatula, Mrs. Sin pressed it adroitly into the tiny bowl of one of the ivory pipes, having first held the bowl inverted for a moment over the lamp. She turned to Rita.
“The guest of the evening,” she said. “Do not be afraid. Inhale—oh, so gentle—and blow the smoke from the nostrils. You know how to smoke?”
“The same as a cigarette?” asked Rita excitedly, as Mrs. Sin bent over her.
“The same, but very, very gentle.”
Rita took the pipe and raised the mouthpiece to the lips.