He was fumbling in the tail pocket of his short tweed coat as he
went. In the hall he turned.

"Got anything to smoke?" he asked, in his most abrupt manner, as if
the cut of his collar did not allow of verbosity.

The old man shyly produced some cigars in a leather case, which had
never been of great value, even in the far-off days of its youth.

"I hardly like to offer them to you," he said slowly. "T--they're
not expensive, and I couldn't explain to the young woman what I
wanted."

"Rather like the look of them," said Lord Seahampton, taking one and
cutting the end off with a certain show of eagerness. This young
man's reputation for personal bravery was a known quantity on the
hunting-field. "Old sailors," he continued, "generally know good
tobacco."

And all the while he had half-a-dozen of the best Havanas in his
pocket. Some instinct, which he was much too practical to define,
and possibly too stupid to detect, told him that this was one of
those occasions where it is much more blessed to receive than to
give.

"And so," continued Captain Bontnor, as they were walking down the
shady side of that noisiest street in the world, the Rambla, "and so
you would just call her Eve, if you was me?"

"I should."