As he flung away the vesta the breeze caught it and it fell on the lawn, flaming brightly.

Garth sprang up and extinguished it, then drew his chair more exactly opposite to Jane's and lay back, smoking meditatively, and watching the little rings he blew, mount into the cedar branches, expand, fade, and vanish.
Jane was watching him.

The varied and characteristic ways in which her friends lighted and smoked their cigarettes always interested Jane.
There were at least a dozen young men of whom she could have given the names upon hearing a description of their method.

Also, she had learned from Deryck Brand the value of silences in an important conversation, and the art of not weakening a statement by a postscript.
At last Garth spoke.
"I wonder why the smoke is that lovely pale blue as it curls up from the cigarette, and a greyish-white if one blows it out." Jane knew it was because it had become impregnated with moisture, but she did not say so, having no desire to contribute her quota of pats to this air-ball, or to encourage the superficial workings of his mind just then.

She quietly awaited the response to her appeal to his deeper nature which she felt certain would be forthcoming.