’Miss Strange,’ said old Tramplara, ’let me introduce my friend, Captain Trecarrel. Captain Trecarrel, Miss Strange, _alias_ the Countess Garcia de Something-or-other-unpronounceable. Same, Mr. Herring. Take a chair, Trecarrel, and try your teeth on the mutton. Miss Strange is the daughter of my first cousin, Jimmy Strange. "Though lost to sight, to memory dear," as the sacred penman has it. The young lady don’t fancy her name somehow, it isn’t high-flavoured enough for her foreign ideas; however, she is a Strange, so sure as lamb is young mutton.’ Captain Trecarrel declined. ’What—no meat! Oh, a Friday. You Catholics——’ ’Vous êtes Catholique, monsieur?’ asked Mirelle, suddenly waking into interest. ’Si, mademoiselle.’ ’Et vous parlez Français?’ ’Assez bien.’ ’Tenez. Quand on sait penser en Français, on n’est plus bête, et quand on est Catholique, voilà l’âme qui vit.’ Herring noticed the look of surprised admiration with which Captain Trecarrel contemplated the wax-like face before him. He saw also the smile that leaped into her eyes when the Captain confessed his religion and spoke in French. She had accorded _him_ no smile. Orange also noticed the admiration awakened in the Captain, and the encouragement given him by Mirelle. Her cheek darkened and she bit her lip. ’No parley-vous here, please!’ said old Trampleasure. ’No one any more mutton? Well, a merciful man is merciful to his beast, says Holy Writ, and so say I. Bella, take out the meat for your own supper.’ When the red-haired servant, who walked from her shoulders, had cleared the table, and had put another log on the fire, and impregnated the atmosphere of the room with a scent of yellow soap, Tramplara said: ’Now for some music. Do you tum-tum, missie?’ Mirelle did not notice the question. ’Beg pardon, Countess Garcia de Candelstickio. If you don’t play yourself, perhaps you will enjoy good music when you hear it? Now then, Orange, sit you down. Sampson, get out your flute, and here is my bass viol, big and burly, and sound in the wind as jolly old Trampleasure himself.’ ’Do you play at all, Countess?’ asked Herring. ’Occasionally; according to where I am. I am not Orphée. I do not pretend to tame the beasts.’ ’Come along, Captain, you must not absent yourself from the concerto. Can you manage any other music than blowing your own trumpet?’ ’If Miss Orange will supply me with a comb and some silver paper, I can give you a rude imitation of the pan-pipes.’ Orange became grave at once. ’Do not jest on that subject, Captain Trecarrel.’ ’No, no,’ threw in Trampleasure, ’it is all cursed superstition, but still, "Let sleeping dogs lay," as Chalker observes in the "Canterbury Tales." ’What do you mean?’ ’You have heard of the old gentleman in red who is said to walk here,’ answered Orange, in a subdued tone. ’The tenants who had Dolbeare before us let the walking-sticks lie at the agent’s, and they were fairly routed out of the house by the noises.’