“Either. She puts me nearly out of my senses.”
“Sit down then, and put yourself into them again. For a few minutes, at least.”
For I perceived the young fellow was warm with something besides love. He had been solacing himself with wine and cigars in the mess-room. Intemperance was not one of his failings, nor was he more than a little excited now; not by any means what men consider “overtaken,” or, to use the honester and uglier word, “drunk.” Yet, as he stood there, lolling against the door, with hot cheeks and watery eyes, talking and laughing louder than usual, and diffusing an atmosphere both nicotian and alcoholic, I thought it was as well on the whole that his divinity did not see her too human young adorer. I have often pitied women, mothers, wives, sisters. If they could see some of us men as we often see one another!
Treherne talked rapturously of the family at Rockmount—the father and the three young ladies.
I asked if there were no mother.
“No. Died, I believe, when my Lisabel was a baby. Lisabel; isn't it a pretty name? Lisabel Treherne, better still—beats Lisabel Johnston hollow.”
This seemed an opportunity for questions, which must be put; safer put them now, than when Treherne was in a soberer and more observant mood.
“Johnston is a Border name. Are they Scotch?”
“Not to my knowledge—I never inquired. Will, if you wish, doctor. You canny Scots always hang together, ha! ha!—but I say, did you ever see three nicer girls? Shouldn't you like one of them for yourself?”