“Thanks, we can exchange.” And they drew out their cases.

“There’s a thoroughbred for you,” the Hofrat said, as he displayed his brand. “Temperament, you know, juicy, got some guts to it. St. Felix, Brazil⁠—I’ve always stuck to this sort. Regular ‘begone, dull care,’ burns like brandy, has something fulminating toward the end. But you need to exercise a little caution⁠—can’t light one from the other, you know⁠—more than a fellow can stand. However, better one good mouthful than any amount of nibbles.”

They twirled their respective offerings between their fingers, felt connoisseur-like the slender shapes that possessed, or so one might think, some organic quality of life, with their ribs formed by the diagonal parallel edges of the raised, here and there porous wrapper, the exposed veins that seemed to pulsate, the small inequalities of the skin, the play of light on planes and edges.