“Well, that’s smoke, isn’t it? coming out of the attic window—and cigar smoke, too, or I’ll eat my hat!”
Jane looked up. It was an undeniable fact that a blue spiral issued from the attic, and, caught by the faint breeze, was wafted gracefully upwards, and dissolved. A very faint scent drifted down to the garden, and that scent—if such it could be called—was of tobacco. Paul, happily ignorant of the dismayed interest he had roused in the garden below, was sampling a cigar that Jeff had lavishly bestowed on him.
“Well, all I’ve got to say is that if he knows what is good for him, he’ll cut that out,” observed Carl drily.
“I guess—I guess he’s just doing it for fun,” said Jane.
“He won’t think it fun if father catches him. But it’s none of my business, I suppose. Go on.”
Jane went on reading, furtively glancing aloft every now and then to see if the tell-tale puffs of smoke were still issuing from the open window. To her intense relief they had stopped after a few minutes, and presently she heard Paul talking to her mother in the kitchen.
“Do you really like this book?” she asked at last, looking at her brother pathetically.
“Very much. But you needn’t read any more if you’re tired. Here’s Elise, now, anyway.”
Elise had just entered by the garden gate.
“Carl! Jane! What do you think! The most exciting thing—”