The table in the little dining-room was laid with a white cloth, and there was a dish with a cold leg of boiled mutton on it at the head. Cheese, butter, and bread were dispersed, not arranged, on the surface of the table. In the centre stood a plated cruet-stand with old mustard turned brown in a pot, and a bottle of sauce down whose sides the sauce had trickled and caked. Mirelle entered with Orange, pale, her long dark lashes drooping on her cheek. She was ashamed, perhaps afraid, to look up. Herring thought he saw something on the lash. A tear?—hardly a whole tear. A brilliant, not a diamond. The room was comfortable. It was panelled with painted wood of Queen Anne’s period, the mouldings heavy and the panels large. The room was low. A fire burnt in the grate. Orange Tramplara came up to Herring. ’You have had a long journey—tedious also,’ she said. ’Not tedious by any means. That was impossible in such company.’ ’Well, long. I wish we had known for certain that my cousin would be here to-night, then we would have had a warm supper ready.’ ’Don’t bother with excuses,’ burst in old Tramplara. ’Men do not heed what they eat, but what they drink. Cold mutton is a very good thing, especially with a glass of hot grog on the top.’ Herring looked steadily at Orange. She was a tall, stoutly built, handsome girl, with black hair, florid complexion, and very beautiful dark eyes. Her lips were crimson, ripe and sensuous. She had a fine throat and a swelling bust. Herring could make out nothing more. Men cannot read women’s characters from their faces. It is well that they are denied this faculty, or the race would become extinct. Marriages, says a proverb, are made in heaven. No—marriages are made in Paradise—the paradise of fools. Whilst Herring studied Orange ineffectually, she was making her own comments on him. She read more of his character than he had been able to decipher of hers. But he had deciphered nothing. She saw that he was good-looking, honest, and amiable, and that he did not lack ability. She read good-nature in every curve, and turned contemptuously away. Good-nature is weakness. ’Come along.’ said Mr. Tramplara, ’the travellers want to peck. Sit you all down. "For what we are going to receive." Under-done, missie? or tasting of the butcher’s fingers, eh?’ *CHAPTER X.* *A MUSICAL WALKING-STICK.* As Herring sat at table, he noticed opposite him, hung against the wall, a large pastille portrait of a gentleman in a red coat, with powdered hair. The face was refined. By way of conversation, Herring asked Orange, who sat next him, whether this were a family picture. ’What—this, this?’ said Tramplara, taking the answer out of his daughter’s mouth. ’Nobody knows who the red man is.’ ’An ancestor, however, I presume,’ said Herring.