"Why me?" asked Denzil, with a little annoyance of tone.
"How amusingly pink you become, my boy, whenever their names are mentioned," said Polwhele; "doubtless you will be 'doing' our old Cornwall all over again with Rose, though it is evident your heart is not there."
"Where, then?"
"In Cabul, and nearer Kohistan than the Well of St. Keyne," replied Polwhele, who, as his name imports, was a Cornishman; and he added, laughingly. "What says Southey?—
But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then!
* * * * * *
I hastened as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;
But i'faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church.
Ah, well do I remember that old spring so famed for its virtues, arched over by old masonry, above which grow five ancient trees, the Cornish oak, the elm, and three ashes, their roots entwined like a network in the turf and moss! But to return to the Trecarrels and their tiffin to-morrow, if I escape the Ghazeeas, who are we likely to meet?"
"Well, I have heard that Lady Sale—"
"The wife of 'Fighting Bob' of the 13th Light Infantry!"
"—Is to be there; the General Commanding too, if his health will permit it, and most likely her Majesty's Envoy to the Shah," continued Denzil, still colouring plainly and deeply.
"I knew that you could tell us all about it; for, of course, the fair Rose employed you to write all the little pink notes on the perfumed paper. You seem very soft in that quarter, Denzil; but one might as well attempt to catch a meteor, my friend, as that girl's heart."