"Oh, he will enjoy being comfortable all the more if we give him a
little discomfort now. What horrible work this chemistry is! Look at
my frock! It is ruined. And this dreadful smell!" She threw open the
window, and thrust her little golden-curled head out of it. Charles
Westmacott was hoeing at the other side of the garden fence.

"Good morning, sir," said Ida.

"Good morning!" The big man leaned upon his hoe and looked up at her.

"Have you any cigarettes, Charles?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Throw me up two."

"Here is my case. Can you catch!"

A seal-skin case came with a soft thud on to the floor. Ida opened it.
It was full.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Egyptians."

"What are some other brands?"

"Oh, Richmond Gems, and Turkish, and Cambridge. But why?"

"Never mind!" She nodded to him and closed the window. "We must remember
all those, Clara," said she. "We must learn to talk about such things.
Mrs. Westmacott knows all about the brands of cigarettes. Has your rum
come?"

"Yes, dear. It is here."

"And I have my stout. Come along up to my room now. This smell is too
abominable. But we must be ready for him when he comes back. If we sit
at the window we shall see him coming down the road."

The fresh morning air, and the genial company of the Admiral had caused
the Doctor to forget his troubles, and he came back about midday in an
excellent humor. As he opened the hall door the vile smell of chemicals
which had spoilt his breakfast met him with a redoubled virulence. He
threw open the hall window, entered the dining-room, and stood aghast at
the sight which met his eyes.

Ida was still sitting among her bottles, with a lit cigarette in her
left hand and a glass of stout on the table beside her. Clara, with
another cigarette, was lounging in the easy chair with several maps
spread out upon the floor around. Her feet were stuck up on the coal
scuttle, and she had a tumblerful of some reddish-brown composition on
the smoking table close at her elbow. The Doctor gazed from one to the
other of them through the thin grey haze of smoke, but his eyes rested
finally in a settled stare of astonishment upon his elder and more
serious daughter.

"Clara!" he gasped, "I could not have believed it!"

"What is it, papa?"

"You are smoking!"

"Trying to, papa. I find it a little difficult, for I have not been used
to it."

"But why, in the name of goodness--"

"Mrs. Westmacott recommends it."

"Oh, a