"De
Quincey, Pyne"--slowly turning towards the baronet--"is didactic, of
course; but his Confessions may be true, nevertheless. He forgets, you
see, that he possessed an unusual constitution, and the temperament of
a Norwegian herring. He forgets, too, that he was a laudanum drinker,
not an opium smoker. Now you, my daughter"--the lustreless eyes again
sought Rita's flushed face--"are vivid--intensely vital. If you can
succeed in resigning yourself to the hypnosis induced your experiences
will be delightful. Trust your Uncle Cy."
Leaving Rita chatting with Miss Gretna, Kilfane took Pyne aside,
offering him a cigarette from an ornate, jewelled case.
"Hello," said the baronet, "can you still get these?"
"With the utmost difficulty," murmured Kilfane, returning the case to
his pocket. "Lola charges me five guineas a hundred for them, and only
supplies them as a favor. I shall be glad to get back home, Pyne. The
right stuff is the wrong price in London."
Sir Lucien laughed sardonically, lighting Kilfane's cigarette and then
his own.
"I find it so myself," he said. "Everything except opium is to be had
at Kazmah's, and nothing except opium interests me."
"He supplies me with cocaine," murmured the comedian.
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