The Swan of Vilamorta by Emilia Pardo Bazán

They seated themselves near the window in the pa rlor in a couple of rocking-chairs brought from Orense. The garden and the vineyard breathed a lazy tranquillity, a silence so profound that the dull sound of the ripe peaches breaking from the branch and falling on the dry ground could be plainly heard. Through the open window came odors of fruit and honey. In the house unbroken silence reigned.

"Will you have a cigar?"