The old man looked at her, but answered nothing. Then he said:
“I like cigarettes, Miss Taggart. I like to think of the fire that a man holds in his hands. Fire, this powerful, dangerous force that man has curtailed and holds at the tip of his fingers. I often think of those moments when a person sits alone, looks at the smoke of his cigarette and reflects. I have often wondered what great accomplishments have grown out of such minutes. When a person thinks, a spark of living fire blows out in his consciousness, and in such moments the light of a smoking cigarette is as if a reflection of his personality.