"Home!" exclaimed Quentin, in a voice that trembled, for the wine was affecting him; "I have _none_!" The three officers glanced at each other, and the fair-haired ensign's white eyebrows went up rather superciliously. "I find that I must talk with you, my young friend," said Warriston--"will you have a cigar?" he added, offering his case after the cloth was removed. "Thank you--no; I am not a smoker." In fact, Quentin had never seen the soothing "weed" in such a form, until his foe, the Master, came to Rohallion. "Waiter, bring candles--another bottle, and then be off; these decanters are empty--fill again; le Roi est mort--vive le Roi!" "In short, Mr. Kennedy, you have run from college or home, I fear," said Monkton; "what have you been about--making love to some of your lady-mother's maids, and got into a double scrape, or what? See how he flushes--there has been some love in the case, at least." "Were you never in love?" asked Quentin, who certainly did redden, but with annoyance. "Who--I--me?--what the devil--in love!" and the bulky lieutenant lay back in his chair and fairly laughed himself crimson, either at the idea or the simplicity of the question. "I have long since learned that there is nothing so variable in the world as woman's temper." "The Horse Guards excepted," said Warriston; "the great nobs there never know their own minds for three days consecutively; witness all the vacillation about who is to command the Spanish expedition." "Then, Mr. Pimple," began Quentin, "have you ever----" "Mr. Kennedy," said the ensign, angrily, "I'll have you to know, sir, that my name is Boyle--Ensign Patrick Boyle, at your service." "So it is," said the lieutenant, choking with laughter, on perceiving that Quentin looked quite bewildered; "but we call him Pimple at the mess for being only five feet and an inch or so. He is not big enough to be a Boyle, though he is one of a tall Ayrshire stock. Is not it so, Pat, old boy? Perhaps you are some relation of the famous chemist?" "Which--who?" "I mean Robert Boyle was seventh son of the Earl of Cork, and became _father_ of chemistry. Now, don't think of calling me out, Pat, for, 'pon my soul, I won't go. The 25th couldn't do without us. You must know, Warriston, that Pimple was in the Royals before he joined us; but he had always a fancy for the Borderers. You used to pass yourself, in mufti, as a 25th man; didn't you, Pimple?--long before you had the honour to admire that blessed number on your own buttons--eh?" Though hearty, hospitable, and jovial, to Quentin it seemed that Monkton had an irrepressible desire to quiz the ensign, even to rudeness, and the latter took it all good-naturedly enough till the fumes of the wine mounted into his head.