On her knee lay her father’s cigarette-making machine and a parcel of papers and tobacco. An empty cigarette tin stood upon the windowsill.
She began packing tobacco into the groove of the machine, distributing and pressing it lightly with the tips of her fingers, watching as she worked the heavy pink cups of the anemones and the shining of their green stalks through the water. They were, she reflected, a little too much out. In the sun they would have come out still more. They would close up at night unless the rooms grew very hot. Slipping the paper evenly into the slot she shut the machine and turned the roller. As the sound of the loosely working cogs came up to her she revolted from her self-imposed task. She was too happy to make cigarettes. It would use up her happiness too stupidly.
She was surprised by a sudden suggestion that she should smoke the single cigarette herself. Why not? Why had she never yet smoked one? She glanced at the slowly swinging door. No one would come. She was alone on the top floor. Everyone was downstairs and busy. The finished cigarette lay on her knee. Taking it between her fingers she pressed a little hanging thread of tobacco into place. The cigarette felt pleasantly plump and firm. It was well made. As she rose to get matches the mowing machine sounded suddenly from the front lawn. She started and looked out of the window, concealing the cigarette in her hand. It was the gardener with bent shoulders pushing with all his might. With some difficulty she unhitched the phosphorescent matchbox from its place under the gas-bracket and got back into her low chair, invisible from the lawn.
The cool air flowed in garden-scented. She held the cigarette between two fingers. The match hissed and flared as she held it carefully below the sill, and the flame flowed towards her while she set the paper alight. Raising the cigarette to her lips she blew gently outwards, down through the tobacco. The flame twisted and went out, leaving the paper charred. She struck another match angrily, urging herself to draw, and drew little panting breaths with the cigarette well in the flame. It smoked. Blowing out the match she looked at the end of the cigarette. It was glowing all over and a delicate little spiral of smoke rose into her face. Quickly she applied her lips again and drew little breaths, opening her mouth wide between each breath and holding the cigarette sideways away from her. The end glowed afresh with each breath. The paper charred evenly away and little flecks of ash fell about her.
A third of the whole length was consumed. Her nostrils breathed in smoke, and as she tasted the burnt flavour the sweetness of the unpolluted air all around her was a new thing. The acrid tang in her nostrils intoxicated her. She drew more boldly. There was smoke in her mouth. She opened it quickly, sharply exhaling a yellow cloud oddly different from the grey spirals wreathing their way from the end of the cigarette. She went on drawing in mouthful after mouthful of smoke, expelling each quickly with widely-opened lips, turning to look at the well-known room through the yellow haze and again at the sky, which drew nearer as she puffed at it. The sight of the treetops scrolled with her little clouds brought her a sense of power. She had chosen to smoke and she was smoking, and the morning world gleamed back at her. …
The morning gleamed. She would choose her fate. It should be amongst green trees and sunshine. That daunted lump who had accepted the post at Banbury Park had nothing to do with her. Morning gladness flooded her, and her gladness of the thought of the evening to come quickened as it had done last night into certainty.
She burned the last inch of the cigarette in the grate, wrapped with combings from the toilet-tidy in a screw of paper. When all was consumed she carefully replaced the summer bundle of ornamental mohair behind the bars.
Useless to tell anyone. No one would believe she had not felt ill. She found it difficult to understand why anyone should feel sick from smoking. Dizzy perhaps … a little drunk. Pater’s tobacco was very strong, some people could not smoke it. … She had smoked a whole cigarette of strong tobacco and liked it. Raising her arms above her head she worked them upwards, stretching every muscle of her body. No, she was anything but ill.
Leaving the window wide she went on to the landing. The smell of tobacco was everywhere. She flung into each room in turn, throwing up windows and leaving doors propped ajar.
Harriett coming up the garden with a basket of cut flowers saw her at the cook’s bedroom window.
“What on earth you doing thayer!” she shrieked putting down her basket.
Hanging from the window Miriam made a trumpet of her hands.
“Something blew in!”
All preparations for the evening were made and the younger members of the household were having a late tea in the breakfast-room. “We’ve done the alcoves,” said Sarah explosively, “in case it rains.”
Nan Babington sat up in her long chair to bring her face round to the deep bay where Sarah stood.
“My dear! Seraphina! And she’s doing the pink bows! Will some saint take my cup? Ta. … My dear, how perfectly screaming.”
Miriam raised her head from the petal-scattered table, where she lay prone side by side with Harriett, to watch Nan sitting up in her firm white dress beaming at Sarah through her slanting eye.
“What flowers you going to wear, Nan?”
Nan patted her sleek slightly Japanese-looking hair. “Ah … splashes of scarlet, my dear. Splashes of scarlet. One in my hair and one here.” She patted the broad level of her enviable breast towards the left shoulder.
“Almost on
