Altogether, it may safely be said that, not even Sir Roderick's nose could have sniffed the workhouse in the young master of Millstead Manor.
Still whistling, Eugene descended the steps and approached a group of people sitting under a large copper-beech tree.

A still, hot summer morning does not incline the mind or the body to activity, and all of them had sunk into attitudes of ease.

Mrs.Lane's work was reposing in her lap; her sister, Miss Jane Chambers, had ceased the pretense of reading; the Rector was enjoying what he kept assuring himself was only just five minutes' peace before he crossed over to his parsonage and his sermon; Lady Claudia Territon and Miss Katharine Bernard were each in possession of a wicker lounge, while at their feet lay two young men in flannels, with lawn-tennis racquets lying idle by them.

A large jug of beer close to the elbow of one of them completed the luxurious picture that was framed in a light cloud of tobacco smoke, traceable to the person who also was obviously responsible for the beer.
As Eugene approached, a sudden thought seemed to strike him.

He stopped deliberately, and with great care lit a cigar.
"Why wasn't I smoking, I wonder!" he said.