However, for the sake of appearances I thought it would be wise to get this provision of ham and birds out of sight, for fear of misadventure, and also I took instant precaution to turn the key in my street door.  Being but two men, and neither of us over-nice in the formalities, I had set a cheese, a loaf, and a bottle betwixt us on the bare table of my office room, for each to serve himself as he would; but I now proposed that, having a lady in our company, we should pay more regard to the decencies by going upstairs to my parlour, and there laying a tablecloth and napkins for our repast.

“Aye, certainly!” cries Moll, who had grown mighty fastidious in these particulars since she had been mistress of Hurst Court; “this dirty table would spoil the best appetite in the world.”

So I carried a faggot and some apple logs upstairs, and soon had a brave fire leaping up the chimney, by which time Moll and her father, with abundant mirth, had set forth our victuals on a clean white cloth, and to each of us a clean plate, knife, and fork, most proper.  Then, all things being to our hand, we sat down and made a most hearty meal of Mrs. Butterby’s good cheer, and all three of us as merry as grigs, with not a shadow of misgiving.

There had seemed something piteous to me in that appeal of Moll’s, that she might be herself for this night; and indeed I marvelled now how she could have so trained her natural disposition to an artificial manner, and did no longer wonder at the look of fatigue and weariness in her face on her return to London.  For the old reckless, careless, daredevil spirit was still alive in her, as I could plainly see now that she abandoned herself entirely to the free sway of impulse; the old twinkle of mirth and mischief was in her eyes; she was no longer a fine lady, but a merry vagabond again, and when she laughed ’twas with her hands clasping her sides, her head thrown back, and all her white teeth gleaming in the light.

“Now,” says I, when at length our meal was finished, “I will clear the table.”

“Hoop!” cries she, catching up the corners of the tablecloth, and flinging them over the fragments; “’tis done.  Let us draw round the fire, and tell old tales.  Here’s a pipe, dear dad; I love the smell of tobacco; and you” (to me) “do fetch me a pipkin, that I may brew a good drink to keep our tongues going.”

About the time this drink was brewed, Simon, leading Mr. Godwin by a circuitous way, came through the garden to the back of the house, where was a door, which I had never opened for lack of a key to fit the lock.  This key was now in Simon’s hand, and putting it with infinite care into the hole, he softly turned it in the wards.  Then, with the like precaution, he lifts the latch and gently thrusts the door open, listening at every inch to catch the sounds within.  At length ’tis opened wide; and so, turning his face to Mr. Godwin, who waits behind, sick with mingled shame and creeping dread, he beckons him to follow.