about them: a
domestic organism, honest, dignified, worthy, more than comfortable.
And she, Elizabeth Maldon, in her old age, was the head of it, and the
fount of good things.

"Thank ye!" ejaculated Julian, with a queer look askance at his
benefactor. "Thank ye, aunt!"

It was all he could get out of his throat, and it was all that was
expected of him. He hated to give thanks--and he hated to be thanked.
The grandeur of the present flattered him. Nevertheless he regarded it
as essentially absurd in its pretentiousness. The pipes were A1, but
could a man carry about a huge contraption like that? All a man needed
was an A1 pipe, which, if he had any sense, he would carry loose in
his pocket with his pouch--and be hanged to morocco cases and silk
linings!

"Stoke up, my hearties!" said Louis, drawing forth a gun-metal
cigarette-case, which was chained to his person by a kind of cable.

Undoubtedly the case of pipes represented for Julian a triumph over
Louis, or, at least, justice against Louis. For obvious reasons Julian
had not quarrelled with a rich and affectionate great-aunt because she
had accorded to Louis the privilege of smoking in her parlour what he
preferred to smoke, while refusing a similar privilege to himself. But
he had resented the distinction. And his joy in the spectacular turn
of the wheel was vast. For that very reason he hid it with much care.
Why should he bubble over with gratitude for having been at last
treated fairly? It would be pitiful to do so. Leaving the case open
upon the table, he pulled a pouch and an old pipe from his pocket, and
began to fill the pipe. It was inexcusable, but it was like him--he
had to do it.

"But aren't you going to try one of the new ones?" asked Mrs. Maldon,
amiably but uncertainly.

"No," said he, with cold nonchalance. Upon nobody in the world had
the sweet magic of Mrs. Maldon's demeanour less influence than upon
himself. "Not now. I want to enjoy my smoke, and the first smoke out
of a new pipe is never any good."

It was very true, but far more wanton than true. Mrs. Maldon in her
ignorance could not appreciate the truth, but she could appreciate its
wantonness. She was wounded--silly, touchy old thing! She was wounded,
and she hid the wound.

Rachel flushed with ire against the boor.

"By the way," Mrs. Maldon remarked in a light, indifferent tone,
just as though the glory of the moment had not been suddenly rent and
shrivelled. "I didn't see you