mpany. It was an extraordinary thing that, try as we might, we could
not finish our pipes at the same time.

About 2 A.M. Pettigrew said something about going to bed; and I rose and
put down my pipe. We stood looking at the fireplace for a time, and he
expressed regret that I had to leave so early in the morning. Then he
put out two of the lights, and after that we both looked at the garden
tobacco. He seemed to have a sudden idea; for rather briskly he tied the
tobacco up into a neat paper parcel and handed it to me, saying that I
would perhaps give it a trial at the inn. I took it without a word, but
opening my hand suddenly I let it fall. My first impulse was to pick
it up; but then it struck me that Pettigrew had not noticed what had
happened, and that, were he to see me pick it up, he might think that
I had not taken sufficient care of it. So I let it lie, and, bidding
him good-night, went off to bed. I was at the foot of the stair when
I thought that, after all, I should like the tobacco, so I returned.
I could not see the package anywhere, but something was fizzing up the
chimney, and Pettigrew had the tongs in his hand. He muttered something
about his wife taking up wrong notions. Next morning that lady was very
satirical about our having smoked the whole two ounces.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXII.

HOW HEROES SMOKE.

On a tiger-skin from the ice-clad regions of the sunless north recline
the heroes of Ouida, rose-scented cigars in their mouths; themselves
gloriously indolent and disdainful, but perhaps huddled a little too
closely together on account of the limited accommodation. Strathmore is
here. But I never felt sure of Strathmore. Was there not less in him
than met the eye? His place, Whiteladies, was a home for kings and
queens; but he was not the luxurious, magnanimous creature he feigned
to be. A host may be known by the cigars he keeps; and, though it is
perhaps a startling thing to say, we have good reason for believing that
Strathmore did not buy good cigars. I question very much whether he had
many Havanas, even of the second quality, at Whiteladies; if he had, he
certainly kept them locked up. Only once does he so much as refer to
them when at his own place, and then in the most general and suspicious
way. "Bah!" he exclaims to a friend; "there is Phil smoking these
wretched musk-scented cigarettes again! they are only fit for Lady
Georgie or Eulalie Papellori. What tas