MOTHER. Ours is considered very good cider. (To her daughter) Take them, child, and give them such refreshment as they want. They have deserved it for their entertainment. DAUGHTER. Why, of course, Mother. Come this way please. [She leads the way, and the others follow, the TALKER coming last and murmuring "Cider" to himself.] MOTHER. Master Johannes. (He turns round.) A word with you, if you please, sir. TALKER. But certainly, Madame. The cider will be all the better for the expectation. MOTHER. Sit down, please. (He does so.) Master Johannes, who are you, all of you? TALKER. I thought I had explained, Madame. Her Royal Sweetness Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a humble Marquis. We may be referred to collectively as the Red Feathers. For myself I am sometimes called Silent John, being of a close disposition. MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the world, and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to you, for however little a time, I must know something more about you. TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I have never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years of age; it is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you something about myself, starting from that day, forty-six years ago, when I was born--were I to begin--well, Madame, I am only too ready to begin. It is a subject I find vastly pleasant. But, (looking at her comically) shall I begin? MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir? TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one who has but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express himself, talking is a great comfort. MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now that I think you must be a man of _our_ world? TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your mother's heart to know that your daughter will be in good company, I think I can give you that comfort. MOTHER. Is that all you can give me? (The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly he takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and is immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a beaming face.) TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to stop any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there was a certain noble gentleman, a baron of estates and family. Conceiving himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch to win or lose it all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a fit of melancholy he abjured society, cursed all women and took to the road. A pleasant melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke. MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just gone). You mean he really is-- TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right to speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe to his lips) Cuck-oo!