human
Some day, perhaps before their marriage, perhaps after, it depends upon the length of the engagement, Jack, after dinner, lights a cigar with a friend. Mildred protests gently. He answers reproachfully. Of course she knows the habit is entirely broken up, she surely is not going to be puritanical and unreasonable because once in a way he lights a cigar as she would eat confectionery? She still feels uneasy, but is rather ashamed to show it. He puts his arm around her, tells her she is a nice little girl, and came just in time to save him from smoking to excess, and he thanks her for it.
gpt
Well?
human
Well, that occasional cigar soon becomes a daily one, or one of a daily half-dozen.
gpt
Mrs. Van Tassel! How cynical you are!
human
Oh no, not cynical. Jack was honest in his expectation to give up his pet indulgence. He reasoned himself into thinking his course was right.
gpt
I can’t believe it is always so.
human
Always, Mr. Page, returned Clover, nodding wisely.
gpt
Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Men have given up tobacco and endured the torment it entails, but _not—for—love_!
human
I never wished before that I was a smoker, said Page musingly,
gpt
A piece of braggadocio which would be sure to reap the reward of failure,
human
Don’t say that, or you will tempt me to experiment. My first cigar made me dreadfully ill when I was twelve years old, and my father counter-irritated my internal misery with an outward application; so I didn’t try it again for some time. In the past year I have occasionally yielded to Jack’s urgency and smoked a cigar, but it doesn’t interest me. I forget about it, and it goes out.
gpt
By all means let well enough alone,
human
Do you object to the use of tobacco?
gpt
In you I should,
human
I wish I could give it up,