“By the way,” said Charles, as I took out a cigarette, “I’ve got a cigar for you.  Don’t smoke that thing.”

“You haven’t let him go in for cigars?” I said reproachfully to Mrs Charles.  I can be very firm about other people’s extravagances.

“This is one I picked up in Portugal,” explained Charles.  “You can get them absurdly cheap out there.  Let’s see, dear; where did I put it?”

“I saw it on your dressing-table last week,” said his wife, getting up to leave us.  He followed her out and went in search of it, while I waited with an interest which I made no effort to conceal.  I had never heard before of a man going all the way to Portugal to buy one cigar for a friend.

“Here it is,” said Charles, coming in again.  He put down in front of me an ash-tray, the matches and a—­and a—­well, as I say, a cigar.  I examined it slowly.  Half of it looked very tired.

“Well,” said Charles, “what do you think of it?”

“When you say you—­er—­picked it up in Portugal,” I began carefully, “I suppose you don’t mean—­” I stopped and tried to bite the end off.

“Have a knife,” said Charles.

I had another bite, and then I decided to be frank.

“Why did you pick it up?” I asked.

“The fact was,” said Charles, “I found myself one day in Lisbon without my pipe, and so I bought that thing; I never smoke them in the ordinary way.”

“Did you smoke this?” I asked.  It was obvious that something had happened to it.

“No, you see, I found some cigarettes at the last moment, and so, knowing that you liked cigars, I thought I’d bring it home for you.”

“It’s very nice of you, Charles.  Of course I can see that it has travelled.  Well, we must do what we can with it.”

I took the knife and started chipping away at the mahogany end.  The other end—­the brown-paper end, which had come ungummed—­I intended to reserve for the match.  When everything was ready I applied a light, leant back in my chair, and pulled.

“That’s all right, isn’t it?” said Charles.  “And you’d be surprised if I told you what I paid for it.”

“No, no, you mustn’t think that,” I protested.  “Probably things are dearer in Portugal.”  I put it down by my plate for a moment’s rest.  “All I’ve got against it at present is that its pores don’t act as freely as they should.”

“I’ve got a cigar-cutter somewhere, if—­”

“No, don’t bother.  I think I can do it with the nut-crackers.  There’s no doubt it was a good cigar once, but it hasn’t wintered well.”

I squeezed it as hard as I could, lit it again, pressed my feet against the table and pulled.

“Now it’s going,” said Charles.

“I’m afraid it keeps very reticent at my end.  The follow-through is poor.  Is your end alight still?”

“Burning beautifully.”

“It’s a pity that I should be missing all that.  How would it be if we were to make a knitting-needle red-hot, and bore a tunnel from this end?  We might establish a draught that way.  Only there’s always the danger, of course, of coming out at the side.”