“Have you given it up, then?” said Hawkesbury. “You used to smoke at Doubleday’s parties.”
“Ah! I thought he looked like a chap that smoked,” said Masham, holding out his case again. “Don’t be modest, Batchelor. We’re all friends here.”
I didn’t like the style of this Masham. Indeed, I was a trifle afraid of him already, and half repented coming.
“I gave up smoking some weeks ago,” said I, determined not to give in if I could help. “I found I couldn’t afford it.”
“The very reason you should take a cigar now when you’ve a chance of getting one for nothing,” replied Masham, digging me pleasantly in the ribs.
“Thanks, I’d rather not, if you’ll excuse me,” I replied again.
“Can’t excuse you, my dear fellow. We’re all bound to be sociable to-day. At least, so I fancy.”
“Come, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury. “We may as well humour him. I’d advise you to take a cigar. I’ll take one, too, to keep you company, though I hate them. They always make me feel sick.”
So saying, he took a cigar and lit it. I felt bound to do the same, not only to relieve myself of Masham’s importunity, but to avoid disturbing the harmony of our party at the very beginning of the day.
At this moment Whipcord arrived on the scene, as stylish as ever, with his hat all on one side of his head and his straw all on one side of his mouth.