Seeing I was not wanted here, I left them to settle their prospectives, and sought Don Sanchez, whom I found reading in a room below, seated in a comfortable chair before a good fire of apple logs.  To please me, he shut up his book and agreed to take a stroll in the park while dinner was a-dressing.  So we clap on our hats and cloaks and set forth, talking of indifferent matters till we are come into a fair open glade (which sort of place the prudent Don did ever prefer to holes and corners for secret conference), and then he told me how Moll and Mr. Godwin had already decided they would be married in three weeks.

“Three weeks?” says I.  “I would it were to be done in three days.”  To which desire the Don coincides with sundry grave nods, and then tells me how Moll would have herself cried in church, for all to know, and that nothing may be wanting to her husband’s dignity.

“After all,” says I, “three weeks is no such great matter.  And now, Senor, do tell me what you think of all this.”

“If you had had the ordering of your own destiny, you could not have contrived it better,” answers he. “’Tis a most excellent game, and you cannot fail to win if” (here he pauses to blow his nose) “if the cards are played properly.”

This somehow brought Dawson into my thoughts, and I told the Don of my visit to him, and how he did purpose to come down to see Moll; whereat the Don, stopping short, looked at me very curiously with his eyebrows raised, but saying nothing.

“’Tis no more than natural that a father should want to see what kind of man is to be his daughter’s husband,” says I, in excuse, “and if he will come, what are we to do?”

“I know what I should do in your place, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, quietly.

“Pray, Senor, what is that?”

“Squeeze all the money you can out of old Simon before he comes,” answers he.  “And it wouldn’t be amiss to make Mr. Godwin party to this business by letting him have a hundred or two for his present necessities at once.”

Acting on this hint, when Moll left us after supper and we three men were seated before the fire, I asked Mr. Godwin if he would permit me to speak upon a matter which concerned his happiness no less than his cousin Judith’s.

“Nay, sir,” replies he, “I do pray you to be open with me, for otherwise I must consider myself unworthy of your friendship.”

“Well, sir,” says I, “my mind is somewhat concerned on account of what you said this morning; namely, that no pecuniary question shall ever be discussed betwixt you and your wife, and that you will owe nothing to her but happiness.  This, together with your purpose of painting pictures to sell, means, I take it, that you will leave your wife absolute mistress of her present fortune.”

“That is the case exactly, Mr. Hopkins,” says he.  “I am not indifferent to the world’s esteem, and I would give no one reason to suspect that I had married my dear cousin to possess her fortune.”