By this time my cigar was reduced to a stump, but, for reasons that Pettigrew misunderstood, I continued to smoke it.

Somehow our chairs had got out of position now, and we were sitting with our backs to each other.
I felt that Pettigrew was looking at me covertly over his shoulder, and took a side glance to make sure of this.

Our eyes met, and I bit my lip.

If there is one thing I loathe, it is to be looked at in this shame-faced manner.
I continued to smoke the stump of my cigar until it scorched my under-lip, and at intervals Pettigrew said, without looking round, that my cigar seemed everlasting.

I treated his innuendo with contempt; but at last I had to let the cigar-end go.