“Runcorn hadn’t cigars like these,” he said, truncating one lovingly.
“We beat him at cigars. We’ll beat him all round.”
My aunt and I regarded him, full of apprehensions.
“I got idees,” he said darkly to the cigar, deepening our dread.
He pocketed his cigar-cutter and spoke again.
“We got to learn all the rotten little game first. See, F’rinstance, we
got to get samples of all the blessed wines there are—and learn ’em up.
Stern, Smoor, Burgundy, all of ’em! She took Stern to-night—and when
she tasted it first—you pulled a face, Susan, you did. I saw you. It
surprised you. You bunched your nose. We got to get used to wine and
not do that. We got to get used to wearing evening dress—_you_, Susan,
too.”
“Always have had a tendency to stick out of my clothes,” said my aunt.
“However—Who cares?” She shrugged her shoulders.