“Thou’rt a modest youth,” said the founder, with a dry chuckle; “and I suppose it would be a great stoop for the hawk to come down from on high to pick up my little dove. And to keep up this style of language, good Sir Mark, I suppose thy hawk’s nest is very well feathered—thou art rich?”
“Well—no,” said Sir Mark, hesitating; “not rich; but my position warrants my assuming to take a wife from the highest in the land.”
“So you come and pick my little tit,” said the founder. “Well, and a very good taste, Sir Mark. She is, as you say, a beautiful girl, and she will have fifteen thousand pounds down on her wedding-day for portion.”
“Fifteen thousand pounds!” exclaimed Sir Mark.
“And twice as much more—perhaps three times—when I die,” said the founder, with a smile of self-satisfaction, which increased as he saw Sir Mark move his hand as he recovered from his surprise.
“Money is no object to me,” he said; “I love Mistress Mace for her worth alone.”
“And you’d marry her without a penny.”
“Ye-es, of course,” cried Sir Mark; “give me your consent.”
“Nay—nay, my lad, not I,” said the founder. “My Mace is no meet match for thee; and, as my guest, I ask you to say no foolish nonsense to the child. She has had silly notions enough put into her head by Gil Carr.”
“But that is all over now, Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Mark. “I pray you give me your consent. I may be recalled to-day.”