"So Addison's the name!" thought I, "and a pretty good one too. I wonder if Leggat has the face to claim descent from the essayist. He's capable of it." I pulled out my only shilling. "Well, yes, I want to have a talk with him: but I'll sit down and wait till he comes, and meanwhile you might bring me a glass of rum hot, with one slice of lemon. Mr. Addison is staying the night here, I suppose?"
"I don't know," she answered. "Anyhow, he won't be riding home to Welland till late. But hadn't you better come to the bar for your rum?"
"Well," said I, "if it's all the same to you, I'll stay where I am. To tell the truth, my dear, I've come to see Mr. Addison about putting up my banns: and that's a delicate matter, eh!"
Upon this she began to eye me more favourably, as I expected. There's an esprit de corps among women—or an esprit de sexe, if you will—which softens them towards the marrying man. Surrender to one, surrender to all. "But you don't belong to Welland parish," said she.
"Quite right. It takes two to make a wedding, and the young woman belongs to Welland."
"Who is she?"
"Aha!" I winked at her knowingly.
"I come from Welland parish myself," she went on, her curiosity fairly piqued.
"Then if you happen to be going home to church next Sunday keep your ears open after the second lesson."
She tossed her chin and went off on her errand, but returning in three minutes with the grog, must needs have another try. "I reckon it's Susie Martin," she declared, and nodded at me with conviction in her eye.