I wanted to hear his voice, if it was only for one second.
Eh! If I am not mistaken, here is the opportunity at last.
There is the phlegmatic gentleman contemptuously looking up and down
the cars. He has just taken a cigar from his yellow morocco case, but
when he looks at his match-box he finds it empty.
My cigar--a particularly good one--is alight, and I am smoking it with
the blessed satisfaction of one who enjoys it, and regretting that
there is not a man in all China who has its equal.
Sir Francis Trevellyan has seen the light burning at the end of my
cigar, and he comes towards me.
I think he is going to ask me for a light. He stretches out his hand,
and I present him with my cigar.
He takes it between his thumb and forefinger, knocks off the white ash,
lights up, and then, if I had not heard him ask for a light, I at least
expected him to say, "Thank you, sir!"
Not at all! Sir Francis Trevellyan takes a few puffs at his own cigar,
and then nonchalantly throws mine on to the platform. And then without
even a bow, he walks leisurely off out of the railway station.
Did you say nothing? No, I remained astounded.
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