TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is he? Is he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he the Cham of Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he were the Cham of Tartary-- MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you are and what you want. TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am named by my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These things you will have already noticed. But now I will commit to you it secret, known only to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I am by nature (he disappears and reappears at the middle window), I am still more so when compelled to hold converse with two such ornaments of their sex (he disappears and reappears at the right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I getting any nearer the door? MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see that we must have your tale. TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers; the other has the honour to belong to that sex which--have I said it?--you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission? DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come. MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all. TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know--But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.] DAUGHTER. Mother, something _is_ going to happen at last. MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that? [The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.] TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis. DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels. MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir. TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess--a courtesy title bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day--plays upon the fiddle with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke--the title was granted last Candlemas--has a voice of a rare richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal. DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame! SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies. MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir. TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays "cuckoo" with an air.)