"Well, what do you want?" I asked.
"A cigar," he said.
"You know where they are, don't you?" I replied.
He went to my cigar cabinet and selected one thoughtfully. Then he lit
it and drew his favourite armchair up to the hearth. His profile was
towards me, and I remarked, as I had done a hundred times before, what a
beautiful face it was. The lines were as clear and round as a woman's;
the mouth sensitively delicate, but firmly set; the nose straight, with
only the slightest indentation below the brows. It was a face of
singular purity and candour. After a time he bent forward towards the
blaze and looked hard into the fire's heart.
"I believe I'm done for, Phil," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I won't tell you till you put down those brushes. You know you can't
see."
"All right," I said. "If you come here to make me neglect my duty, I
suppose I must put up with it."
"Pooh!" he said; "sit down then and don't be an ass."
"I'll sit down, but perhaps I can't help being an ass."
"I daresay you can't, poor dear," he said. Then he lay back in his chair
and laughed. "To think of me," he chuckled, "falling in love."