“Miss Cartwright,” he said, and noted that she seemed startled at his voice, “can’t I get your fan for you?”
“No, thanks,” she returned, “you’d have to rummage, and that’s a privilege I reserve only for myself.”
“Here you are,” Denby broke in, handing her the slim white cigarette.
She took it from him with a smile and moistened the edge of the paper as she had seen men do often enough. “You are an expert,” she said admiringly.
He said no word but lighted a match and held it for her. She drew a breath of tobacco and half concealed a cough. It was plain to see that she was making a struggle to enjoy it, and plainer for the men to note that she failed.
“What deliciously mild tobacco you smoke,” she cried. Suddenly she stretched out her hand for the pouch. “Do let me see.”
But Denby did not pass it to her. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“I don’t think a look at it would help you much,” he said slowly. “The name is, in case you ever want to get any, ‘without fire.’”
“What an odd name,” she cried. “Without fire?”
“Yes,” he answered. “You see, no smoke without fire.” Without any appearance of haste he put the pouch back in his pocket.