“Worse—worse,” I responded, with a sigh. “I’ll be married, whether I will or not. Nothing can save me.”
“Oh—I expected it,” returned the captain. “Then, of course, you’ll leave the regiment, and poor Phipps has no chance of getting you to take his turn for the Peninsula?”
“No chance!” I exclaimed; “I’m ready in half an hour. Aye, that’s an opening for escape. But stop; I must answer a note. There’s cherry-brandy in the cupboard,—take a glass, O’Boyle, and hand me another, merely to keep you in countenance. So here goes—listen!
“‘Dearest Flo,
“‘I shall ever treasure the dear ringlet you have given me, and, no matter where I am, shall look upon it as love’s talisman.’”
“Stop!” exclaimed Captain O’Boyle,—“what the devil’s a talisman?”
“Oh—hang it! no matter.” It’s I don’t know what myself—but a word, very commonly introduced into tender correspondence.
“‘As to that beast Brophy, as you properly term him, I feel some delicacy in offering an opinion. Were I he, I should at once accept your proposition, and declare ‘off by mutual consent.’
“‘If possible, I shall be with you for coffee, and attend to your advice religiously.
“‘Dear Flo,