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I realised it was the cigarette to which I had helped myself from the
beautifully chased silver casket I had taken from the mantelpiece. I
eyed the thing and concluded it was made of the very cheapest tobacco,
and was what the street urchin calls a "fag." I learned afterwards that
I was right. She purchased them at the rate of six for a penny, and
smoked them in enormous quantities. For politeness' sake I continued
to puff at the unclean thing until I nearly made myself sick. Then,
simulating absentmindedness, I threw it into the fire.
Why, in the sacred name of Nicotine, does a luxurious lady like Lola
Brandt smoke such unutterable garbage?
On the other hand, the tea which she offered us a few minutes later, and
begged us to drink without milk, was the most exquisite I have tasted
outside Russia. She informed us that she got it direct from Moscow.
"I can't stand your black Ceylon tea," she remarked, with a grimace.
And yet she could smoke "fags." I wondered what other contradictious
tastes she possessed.


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