stared at her very hard, and seeming quite dumb-stricken by her
appearance, contented himself by swallowing a whole glass of
mountain by way of reply.

Mr. Brock was, however, by no means so confounded as his captain:
he was thirty years older than the latter, and in the course of
fifty years of military life had learned to look on the most
dangerous enemy, or the most beautiful woman, with the like daring,
devil-may-care determination to conquer.

"My dear Mary," then said that gentleman, "his honour is a lord; as
good as a lord, that is; for all he allows such humble fellows as I
am to drink with him."

Catherine dropped a low curtsey, and said, "Well, I don't know if
you are joking a poor country girl, as all you soldier gentlemen do;
but his honour LOOKS like a lord: though I never see one, to be
sure."

"Then," said the Captain, gathering courage, "how do you know I look
like one, pretty Mary?"

"Pretty Catherine: I mean Catherine, if you please, sir."

Here Mr. Brock burst into a roar of laughter, and shouting with many
oaths that she was right at first, invited her to give him what he
called a buss.

Pretty Catherine turned away from him at this request, and muttered
something about "Keep your distance, low fellow! buss indeed; poor