“You speak of my husband!” said Mistress Warlock, drawing herself up with dignity. “I can’t help that. _I_ didn’t give you away. Let’s have some supper, will you? I want a tumbler of toddy, and without something to eat it might make me drunk.” Lady Joan sat silent, with a look half of contempt, half of mischievous enjoyment on her handsome face. She had too often to suffer from her father’s rudeness not to enjoy its bringing him into a scrape. But the laird was sharper than she thought him, and seeing both the old man’s condition and his mistake, humoured the joke. His mother rose, trembling with indignation. He gave her his arm, and conducted her to a stair which ascended immediately from the kitchen, whispering to her on the way, that the man was the worse of drink, and he must not quarrel with him. She retired without leave-taking. He then called Cosmo and Agnes, who were talking together in a low voice at the other end of the kitchen, and taking them to Grizzie in the spare room, told them to help her, that she might the sooner come and get the supper ready. “I am afraid, my lord,” he said, returning, “we are but poorly provided for such guests as your lordship, but we will do what we can.” “A horrible country!” growled his lordship; “but look you, I don’t want jaw--I want drink.” “What drink would your lordship have? If it be in my power--” “I doubt, for all your talk, if you’ve got anything but your miserable whisky!” interrupted Lord Mergwain. Now the laird had some remnants of old wine in the once well stored cellar, and, thankless as his visitor seemed likely to turn out, his hospitality would not allow him to withhold what he had. “I have a few bottles of claret,” he said, “--if it should not be over-old!--I do not understand much about wine myself.” “Let’s have it up,” cried his lordship. “We’ll see. If you don’t know good wine, I do. I’m old enough for any wine.” The laird would have had more confidence in recommending his port, which he had been told was as fine as any in Scotland, but he thought claret safer for one in his lordship’s condition--one who having drunk would drink again. He went therefore to the wine cellar, which had once been the dungeon of the castle, and brought thence a most respectable-looking magnum, dirty as a burrowing terrier, and to the eye of the imagination hoary with age. The eyes of the toper glistened at the sight. Eagerly he stretched out both hands towards it. They actually trembled with desire. Hardly could he endure the delay of its uncorking. No sooner did the fine promissory note of the discharge of its tompion reach his ear, than he cried out, with the authority of a field-officer at least: “Decant it. Leave the last glass in the bottom.” The laird filled a decanter, and set it before him. “Haven’t you a mangum-jug?” “No, my lord.” “Then fill another decanter, and mind the last glass.” “I have not another decanter, my lord.”