“You might call it friends,” said Barron reproachfully.
“No; acquaintances—yet,” said the old sailor sturdily.
“Then you do give me some hope?” cried Barron excitedly.
“No, I did not, sir. I’m out of soundings here. No; hang it, I meant to say, sir, in shoal water. Hang it, man, I don’t want the child to think about such things for years.”
“Sir Mark, your daughter must be twenty.”
“Eh? Twenty? Humph! Well, I suppose she is.”
“There is no hurry, sir. Let matters go on as they are, only let it be an understood thing that you do, say in a latent may, encourage my suit.”
“No, sir; I’ll bind myself to nothing; I—Oh, hang it all, man, why did you spoil a pleasant trip like this?”
“Spoil it, Sir Mark? Have some compassion for the natural feelings of a man thrown into the society of so sweet a girl as—”
“That will do, sir; that will do,” cried the admiral, frowning. “There; I’m not going to quarrel with you, Mr Barron. I was young once myself. I was a good sailor, I’m told, but this sort of thing is out of my latitude. If my poor wife had lived—Phew! it’s growing hot, isn’t it? Thunderstorm, I suppose.”