With these two personages the narrative has much to do.
I sat smoking the one post-prandial cigar allowed me by my doctor, contemplating with indolent satisfaction the fragrant greenery in front of me, when my meditations apropos of nothing were brought up with a sudden jerk by the young fellow on my left asking to be permitted to light his cigar from mine.
Now, as a matter of fact, I have a very decided and deep-rooted objection to surrendering my cigar to anybody, rich or poor, gentle or simple; I like no one to handle it but myself; and therefore, instead of transferring the glowing weed to his expectant fingers, I dived into the breast-pocket of my coat, and producing a tin box containing wax matches, placed it, together with its contents, at his disposal.
“You are an Englishman,” he gaily exclaimed, extracting a vesta as he spoke.
“No, but very English on the subject of the handling of my baccy,” I laughed.
“You are not far astray. You should have seen the tramp that deprived me of a genuine Lopez this morning. I couldn’t refuse him, so I left him the weed.”
“I consider that the——”
“Per Bacco! there she goes,” he suddenly interposed, and, flinging my match-box into my lap, he vaulted over the railing into the carriage-drive beneath.
Two ladies seated in a pony-phaeton flashed past.
“I’m English,” exclaimed my right-hand man, tapping the ash from his cigar with a finger white and delicate as wax, “and I’m glad to find that one American sees the abomination of handing every cad his cigar who chooses to ask for it.”