"Come, parson," he said, "think of the punch a little. It is getting cold."
"So it is, by Jove," cried the parson, ladling out the punch. "Here, take a glass, sir. It will keep up the spirits of both of us; for this is a bad business."
"Not at all," returned Smeaton, laughing. "It is perfectly right and proper. All that we require secresy for is to prevent the intermeddling of persons who have no right to meddle."
"But Sir John Newark is her guardian," said the parson, drinking some of his punch.
"Not so," replied the young nobleman. "He is no more her guardian than you are."
"You must have some guardian's consent," said Parson Thickett. "That I know, because I've got the register of her birth in there--" and he pointed to a large box in one corner of the room.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Smeaton. "Will you have the kindness to give me a copy of it? I fancied that Sir John Newark kept the registers at Ale, and would not let you have them."
"Not he," replied his reverend companion. "A fico for Sir John Newark! The stingy hound has not asked me to dinner for three years, and moreover tries to defraud me of my dues. He'll pay no tithes of mint and cumin, not he. So the last time I had my hand upon the registers I took them away. He had had them then four years; and that was four years too many. You shall have a copy. He'll not much like that; and, if I marry you, there will be an awful explosion."
He finished his speech with a good draught of punch; and Smeaton remarked:
"I hope there is no 'if' in the case, my good sir. You promised, if I would let you have your way, you would let me have mine."