I was in high spirits that day: the sunshine in the heavens was upon my heart; I enjoyed the company of the handsome lady; I found a growing and a deepening pleasure in viewing her when she talked; I delighted in the music that her voice gave to her English. All was well and we were homeward bound. I had a mind to talk of my dollars and my prospects, and whether she guessed my wish or not she helped me to the subject by asking me how much my share would amount to. “Many figures in dollars,” said I, “and in British gold just a little fat figure.” “Shall you buy a ship?” said she, smiling. “No,” said I, looking earnestly at her; “I will marry a wife and settle down.” She clapped her hands, threw her head back, and laughed aloud. “_Qué disperate._ Cannot you make a better use of your money than purchasing a wife with it? Señor Fielding, you shall buy a fine ship and trade to the Indies and grow immensely rich. Marry! _Qué disperate._” She threw back her head again, and laughed out. “I’ll buy no ship,” said I. “I will marry a handsome woman, and live happily with her on the seashore. She and I will go a-fishing for pleasure. You are not a sailor: were you a sailor, you would think of nothing but a wife and a home of your own and money enough for meat, tobacco, and the rest.” “Your wife,” said she, “shall be another _Perfecta Casada_: she shall make you more money than any woman can bring you. You’ll die a Catholic, and your fortune shall build a magnificent cathedral;” and now, without another word, she abruptly rose, made me a low, strange bow, as though forsooth we had met for the first time in our brig five minutes before, and went to her cabin. She was frequently puzzling me in this way. She’d abandon herself, so to speak; be all charm, naïveté, smiles, and graciousness, then abruptly look poniards and corkscrews, and with a sweep of her fine figure make off. Was it her theory of coquetry? I went on deck with a half smile in my thought of her odd, abrupt, capricious withdrawal, and amused, too, with thinking of how I now managed to make out a clear conversation with a girl who, a few weeks before, pointed at things with her finger and talked to me with her eyes. The time was about twenty minutes before two. John Wirtz was at the wheel. Bol, whose watch it was, talked with Travers and Teach in the gangway. Travers and Teach were in Galen’s watch. I was surprised to find them aft; further aft, I mean, than that they had a right to be, talking with Bol, whose business it was to keep a lookout. Galen was on the forecastle pacing to and fro, under the yawn of the fore-course, with Henry Call and James Meehan; Friend and the two Spaniards were squatted upon a sail in the waist, stitching at it. Both watches then were on deck, and all hands saving Jim Vinten, the cabin boy, visible.