It isn't the thing." Then he explained, hesitatingly, that he hadn't given up smoking.

"I come down here," he said, "with my pipe, and walk up and down.

I assure you it is quite a new sensation, and I much prefer it to lolling in an easy-chair." The poor fellow shivered as he spoke, and I noticed that his great-coat was tightly buttoned up to the throat.

He had a hacking cough and his teeth were chattering.

"Let us go in," I said; "I don't want to smoke." He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and opened his door with an affectation of gayety.
The room looked somewhat more home-like now, but it was very cold.
Scrymgeour had no fire yet.