“They were wise women, my dear, and knew how to appreciate the merits of the weed. The Irish are a clever people—a very clever people. You remember, that I am Irish by the mother’s side, and have retained one of the national tastes. But it was not in Ireland, nor in the streets of London, sitting upon a fruit-woman’s barrow, that I learned the pleasures of smoking. It was in the East, with all its pretended romance, and real humbug, that I acquired what you consider an unfeminine accomplishment. I saw fat, turbaned men sitting cross-legged in every bazaar, dozing over their huge pipes, in a sort of dreamy helplessness; and I determined to fathom the mystery of their enjoyment, and find out the grand secret. “The first few whiffs I took made me very sick and stupid. ‘Courage,’ said I, not in the least disheartened— “‘Pleasure cometh after pain, Sunshine cometh after rain— Wilhelmina, try again.’ And I did try, for I was determined not to be beaten by these long-bearded, long-petticoated men; and the next trial was crowned with complete success. “Now, Mrs. Lyndsay, is it not a shame that these selfish men should be tamely allowed by us foolish women to monopolise all the good things of life, and make that criminal in a female which they cannot deny themselves? You don’t know how much you lose, by being frightened by their blustering into passive obedience, and persuaded that what is good for a man is quite out of keeping with a woman. Do, just by way of illustration to my argument, try one of those fragrant cigars. They are of the best quality—real Havana—’pon honour.” “You must excuse me,” said Flora, laughing—as Miss Wilhelmina’s head dimly loomed through clouds of smoke—“I have no wish to acquire such a taste.” “You’re a little fool,” puffed forth Wilhelmina. “But I hope to make something out of you yet. Take a glass of wine.” “I never drink anything but water, excepting at breakfast and tea.” “Water! Fiddle-faddle. A tumbler of hot punch will do you no harm. I am going to mix some in the most scientific manner.” “Only think what Lyndsay would say,” cried Flora, “if he should come in, and find me smoking a cigar, and drinking brandy punch? He would never forgive me—I could never forgive myself.” “All stuff and nonsense; I am certain he would neither refuse one of these cigars, nor a tumbler of this excellent punch. Does he never smoke?” “Oh, yes; a cigar, sometimes.” “And takes a glass of toddy—or he’s no Scot.” “Occasionally, with a friend.”