In one of the best smoking scenes in English literature, Charles Ryder and Julia Flyte are motoring to Brideshead. Julia is behind the wheel of her open-topped car and nods towards a box of cigarettes: ‘Light one for me, will you?’
‘As I took the cigarette from my lips and put it in hers,’ writes Charles, ‘I caught a thin bat's squeak of sexuality, inaudible to any but me.’
But, of course, we all heard it.
Imagine for a
