To me this is one of the great charms of human intercourse.

Is there not a legend that Tennyson and Carlyle spent the most enjoyable evenings of their lives enveloped in impenetrable silence and tobacco-smoke, one on each side of the hob?
A sort of Whistlerian nocturne of golden fog! I offered Judith a cigarette.

She declined it with a shake of the head.
I lit one myself and leaning back contentedly in my chair watched her face in half-profile.

Most people would call her plain.

I can't make up my mind on the point.