"Then," said I, almost sulkily, "what on earth, Captain Parsons, is the good of you and Mrs. Barstow and Miss Moggadore advising Miss Bellassys and me to get married straight away off, as you term it?"
"It ought to be done," said he, with an emphatic nod.
"What, without a parson?" I cried.
"I am a parson," he exclaimed.
I imagined he intended a stupid pun upon his name.
"Parson enough," he continued, "to do your business. I'll marry you!"
"You?" I shouted.
"Yes, me," he returned, striking his breast with his fist.
"Pray, where were you ordained?" said I, disgusted with the bad taste of what I regarded as a joke.
"Ordained!" he echoed, "I don't understand you. I'm the master of a British merchantman, and, as such, can and do desire, for Miss Bellassys's sake, to marry ye."