’Mr. Strange was a Brazilian diamond merchant. I mean a merchant of diamonds living in Brazil. My mother married him there. It was very good of my mother, but she was an angel. He was rich—_comme ça, mais bourgeois_. When I was born, my mother came to Paris to have me properly educated, and I lived there till the good God took her. I have been at school with the English sisters of the Sacré Coeur. When my father came to Paris he took me away, to bring me to his home in England.’ ’Where is his home?’ ’He has none; he would make one. He has retired from his business.’ ’What relations has he? They should be communicated with.’ ’I do not know that he has any. My mother never spoke of my father’s relations. She knew nothing of them; she did not want to know them. In this world everything is on shelves, and the things on each shelf are kept to themselves. Where they get mixed there is inextricable confusion. Above, angels; then kings, nobles, bourgeois, peasants, monkeys, and so down to the lowest form of life—those laid on the floor. My father’s relatives were not noble.’ Then suddenly, ’Are you noble, sir?’ Mr. Battishill threw up his head proudly. ’My family is gentle, and of ancient degree,’ he said. ’We appeared in the Heralds’ Visitation of 1620 in four descents, but I have title-deeds that show we were lords of the manor of West Wyke from the time of Edward the Third.’ ’Those are your arms?’ asked Mirelle, looking at the chimney-piece. ’What birds are those?’ ’Owls,’ answered Mr. Battishill, proudly; ’owls argent, beaked and clawed or.’ Mirelle contemplated the owls, then looked at the gentleman, with his blank eyes, beak-like nose, and grey hair. Her lips twitched slightly, but she was too well bred to smile. ’The bird is dedicated to Minerva. It is the symbol of wisdom,’ she said. ’The Battishills were ever owls,’ said he, proudly. Then he asked, glancing at the young man, ’Is this gentleman your brother?’ Mirelle looked up full for the first time into the young stranger’s face. ’He is no relative of mine. I do not even know his name.’ ’My name,’ said he, stepping forward, ’is John Herring.’ He was interrupted by a laugh from Mirelle. ’Herring!’ she exclaimed, ’Quel drôle de nom! That is a fish they split and pickle, and pack in barrels, is it not?’ The young man coloured. ’The name is bourgeois—Herring!’ The young gentleman drew back, wounded. He said nothing more about himself, but asked Mr. Battishill in a low voice for a lantern. ’The trunks and portmanteaus are lying with the broken chaise, and I must see to their being placed under shelter and in security. Are there men about the premises who can assist me?’ ’There will be some difficulty about finding a man,’ answered Mr. Battishill. ’We do not keep one in the house, and the cottages are at a distance. You will not find your way to them by night. Do not trouble about the trunks; leave them till morning. No one will touch them.’