"This is a very extraordinary adventure," said I, eating and drinking with a relish and an appetite not a little heightened by observing that Grace was making a very good meal. "It may not end so soon as we hope, either. First of all, we have to fall in with a homeward-bound ship; then she has to receive us; then she has to arrive in the Channel and transfer us to a tug or a smack, or anything else which may be willing to put us ashore; and there is always the chance of her _not_ falling in with such a craft as we want, until she is as high as the Forelands--past Boulogne, in short! But no matter, my own. We are together, and that is everything." She took a sip of the champagne that the steward had filled her glass with, and said in a musing voice, "What will the people in this ship think of me?" "What they may think need not trouble us," said I. "I told Captain Parsons that we were engaged to be married. Is there anything very extraordinary in a young fellow taking the girl he is engaged to out for a sail in his yacht, and being blown away, and nearly wrecked by a heavy gale of wind?" "Oh, but they will know better," she exclaimed, with a pout. "Well, I forgot, it is true, that I told the captain we sailed from Boulogne. But how is he to know your people don't live there?" "It will soon be whispered about that I have eloped with you, Herbert," she exclaimed. "Who's to know the truth if it isn't divulged, my pet?" said I. "But it is divulged," she answered. I stared at her. She eyed me wistfully as she continued: "I told Mrs. Barstow the story. I am not ashamed of my conduct, and I ought not to feel ashamed of the truth being known." There was logic and heroism in this closing sentence, though it did not strictly correspond with the expression she had just now let fall as to what the people would think. I surveyed her silently, and after a little exclaimed: "You are in the right. Let the truth be known. I shall give the skipper the whole yarn that there may be no misunderstanding, for after all we may have to stick to this ship for some days, and it would be very unpleasant to find ourselves misjudged." I gazed, as I spoke, through the windows of the saloon or cuddy front, which overlooked the main-deck, where a number of steerage passengers were standing in groups. The ship was before the wind; the great main-course was hauled up to its yard, and I could see to as far as the forecastle, with a fragment of bowsprit showing under the white arch of the foresail; some sailors in coloured apparel were hauling upon a rope hard by the foremast; a gleam of misty sunshine was pouring full upon this window-framed picture, and crowded it with rich oceanic tints softened by the ruled and swaying shadows of the rigging. An extraordinary thought flashed into my head. "By Jove! Grace, I wonder if there's a parson on board?" "Why do you wonder?" "If there is a parson on board he might be able to marry us."