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He gave another to a friend of my own, another amateur photographer, Wilson Firth gave him it in my presence at the Midland Hotel one day, when we were all three having a cigar together in the smoking-room there. Wilson Firth's a bit of a rival of mine in the amateur photographic line we each try to beat the other, you understand.
I kept on sitting in the smoking-room, but they stayed. By and by the porter came and asked me if I had "lower four." I said yes I paid for it, but I couldn't really say I had it in my possession. He then said that two ladies and a little girl had "upper four," and asked if I would mind swapping with them.
The library was fitted up with bookshelves and easy-chairs for reading, with a big round oak table in the centre. The floor was of stained oak boards and covered with rugs. There was also a capacious smoking-room, and I learned that smoking was not allowed elsewhere. It was, in fact, a solid old family mansion of some dignity.
"This is horrible!" said Tom Hunter one evening, while rapidly carbonizing his wooden legs in the fireplace of the smoking-room; "nothing to do! nothing to look forward to! what a loathsome existence! When again shall the guns arouse us in the morning with their delightful reports?" "Those days are gone by," said jolly Bilsby, trying to extend his missing arms. "It was delightful once upon a time!
My fat man in black, coming in at the moment to bring me some soda water, looked at his mistress with an expression of amazement and horror, which told me that he now saw Mrs. Roylake in the smoking-room for the first time. I involved myself in new clouds. If I suffocated my stepmother, her own polite equivocation would justify the act. She settled herself opposite to me in an armchair.
He looked first into the little apartment which Geraldine claimed for her own, but found it empty. He passed on into the smoking-room and found all four of the young people gathered around the table. They were so absorbed that they did not even notice his entrance. Ralph, with a sheet of paper stretched out before him and a pencil in his hand, was apparently sketching something.
A chuckle rose from the recumbent figure. "Only my knee. The beggars! They precious nearly choked me, though." Bertie Caradoc, leaving the smoking-room at Monkland Court that same evening, on his way to bed, went to the Georgian corridor, where his pet barometer was hanging.
All that she wants to make sure of is that they're young men or old ones, even." March laughed, but not altogether at what his wife said. "I've been having a little talk with Papa Triscoe, in the smoking-room." "You smell like it," said his wife, not to seem too eager: "Well?" "Well, Papa Triscoe seems to be in a pout. He doesn't think things are going as they should in America.
But others succeed them, not less detached and enigmatic than they. You must never speak to one of them. You must never lapse into those casual acquaintances of the 'lounge' or the smoking-room. Nor is it hard to avoid them. No Englishman, how gregarious and garrulous soever, will dare address another Englishman in whose eye is no spark of invitation. There must be no such spark in yours.
There's a nice alcove aft behind the smoking-room where we may find refuge. Yes, I grant the little girls are just as bad as the boys; there is that pert spoilt little miss who rushes after the steward when he carries round the hors d'oeuvre before dinner and clamours for them. "They're not for children," he told her.
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