Perhaps he couldn't find anybody willing to stay in such a hole,--it's so confoundedly damp.
He died in here, didn't he ?" This was in a lower voice.
"Yes," Gifford answered.
"Shouldn't think you'd stay alone," Dick went on; "it is awfully dismal.
I see he cheered himself once in a while." He pointed to a tray, which held a varied collection of pipes and a dingy tobacco pouch of buckskin with a border of colored porcupine quills.
"Yes, Mr.Denner smoked," Gifford was constrained to say.
"I think," said Dick, clapping his hand upon his breast-pocket, "I'll have a cigar myself.

It braces one up this weather." He struck a match on the sole of his boot, forgetting it was wet, and vowing good-naturedly that he was an ass.

"No objection, I suppose ?" he added, carefully biting off the end of his cigar.
"I should prefer," Gifford replied slowly, "that you did not smoke.

There is an impropriety about it, which surely you must appreciate." Dick looked at him, with the lighted match flaring bluely between his fingers.

"Lord!" he said, "how many things are improper in Ashurst! But just as you say, of course." He put his cigar back in an elaborate case, and blew out the match, throwing it into the fireplace, among the flowers.