aint than to be a sinner; it becomes a mere matter of
habit."

"I know," I interrupted, "it is every whit as easy to spring out of bed
the instant you are called as to say 'All Right,' and turn over for just
another five minutes' snooze, when you have got into the way of it. It
is no more trouble not to swear than to swear, if you make a custom of
it. Toast and water is as delicious as champagne, when you have acquired
the taste for it. Things are also just as easy the other way about. It
is a mere question of making your choice and sticking to it."

He agreed with me.

"Now take these cigars of mine," he said, pushing his open case towards
me.

"Thank you," I replied hurriedly, "I'm not smoking this passage."

"Don't be alarmed," he answered, "I meant merely as an argument. Now one
of these would make you wretched for a week."

I admitted his premise.

"Very well," he continued. "Now I, as you know, smoke them all day long,
and enjoy them. Why? Because I have got into the habit. Years ago,
when I was a young man, I smoked expensive Havanas. I found that I was
ruining myself. It was absolutely necessary that I should take a cheaper
weed. I was living in Belgium at the time, and a friend showed me these.
I don't know what they are--probably cabbage leaves soaked in guano; they
tasted to me like that at first--but they were cheap. Buying them by the
five hundred, they cost me three a penny. I determined to like them, and
started with one a day. It was terrible work, I admit, but as I said to
myself, nothing could be worse than the Havanas themselves had been in
the beginning. Smoking is an acquired taste, and it must be as easy to
learn to like one flavour as another. I persevered and I conquered.
Before the year was over I could think of them without loathing, at the
end of two I could smoke them without positive discomfort. Now I prefer
them to any other brand on the market. Indeed, a good cigar disagrees
with me."

I suggested it might have been less painful to have given up smoking
altogether.

"I did think of it," he replied, "but a man who doesn't smoke always
seems to me bad company. There is something very sociable about smoke."

He leant back and puffed great clouds into the air, filling the small den
with an odour suggestive of bilge water and cemeteries.

"Then again," he resumed after a pause, "take my claret. No, you don't
like it." (I had not spoken, but my face had evident