" "Allow me to offer you a glass of usquebaugh, my dear," said Kneebone, turning from him, and regarding Edgeworth Bess with a stare so impertinent, that even that not over-delicate young lady summoned up a blush. It’s—it’s a serious prohibition. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. Well, kill me. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. Here was a thundering blow.
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