He was pottering about the house one afternoon, having ordered me to keep at his heels for company—he was a man who hated to be left one minute alone,—when his eye fell on it. 'H'm! Sheraton!' he remarked. (He had a smattering of most things, this uncle, especially the vocabularies.) Then he let down the flap, and examined the empty pigeon-holes and dusty panelling. 'Fine bit of inlay,' he went on: 'good work, all of it. I know the sort. There's a secret drawer in there somewhere.' Then as I breathlessly drew near, he suddenly exclaimed: 'By Jove, I do want to smoke!' And, wheeling round, he abruptly fled for the garden, leaving me with the cup dashed from my lips. What a strange thing, I mused, was this smoking, that takes a man suddenly, be he in the court, the camp, or the grove, grips him like an Afreet, and whirls him off' to do its imperious behests! Would it be even so with myself, I wondered, in those unknown grown-up years to come?
But I had no time to waste in vain speculations. My whole being was still vibrating to
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