THE UNDERCURRENT
entered the room. Slowly Hammersley took his hands from his pockets, reached into his waistcoat for his cigarette case, and as Rizzio approached, opened and offered it to him.
“Smoke?” he asked carelessly.
“I don’t mind if I do. But I’ve taken a curious liking for rolled cigarettes. Ah! I thought so.” He opened the tobacco jar and sniffed at it, searched around the articles on the table, then, “How disappointing! Nothing but Algy’s dreadful pipes. You don’t happen to have any rice-papers do you?”
Hammersley was lighting his own cigarette at the brazier.
“No. Sorry,” he replied laconically.
Rizzio leaned beside him against the edge of the table.
“Strange. I thought I saw you making a cigarette in the dining-room.”
Hammersley’s face brightened. “Oh, yes, Byfield. Byfield has rice-papers.”
“I’d rather have yours,” he said quietly.
The Honorable Cyril looked up.
“Mine, old chap? I thought I told you I hadn’t any.”
Rizzio smiled amiably.
“Then I must have misunderstood you,” he said politely.
“Yes,” said Hammersley and sank into an armchair.
Rizzio did not move and the Honorable Cyril, his head back, was already blowing smoke rings.
Rizzio suddenly relaxed with a laugh and put his legs over a small chair near Hammersley’s and folded his arms along its back.
25
