He appeared to have struck a sort of Franco-Flemish neutral ground. He was put to wait in a little kitchen like a bright toy. The floor was ruddy brick, the walls were white tiles. Outside the window a shallow awning tinkled sleepily, in spasms of draught, with the stirring of innumerable small bells. The stove or range, a shining cold example of continence, seemed innocent of the least tradition of heat. On the polished dark dresser vessels of copper, of pewter, and of brass--stewpans, lidded flagons, and the narrow-necked, wood-stoppered, resonant jugs, in which it was the Dutch fashion to bring milk from the fields--shone with a demure sobriety of tone in the falling light. But the meal, when it came, was served in the French manner and without stint. The traveller, seeing no preparations toward in the spick room he inhabited, was falling into a mood of gentle depression before his fears were dissipated. Then he ventured an inquiry of the solemn wench who brought in his tray. She almost dropped the load in her amazement. “Holy Saints! Cook here! in the show kitchen!” She put down, with crushing emphasis, a fresh table-napkin, a small blunt knife, a silver fork, and a silver spoon--all _à la française_. This was luxury as compared with recent experiences. Ned looked serious over the knife. He did not know that French meat stewed to the melting-point dismembers itself at a touch. He had a very succulent salmis; and no fewer than four hot eggs, cuddled in a white clout, were served to him. “Am I to devour them all?” he asked of the girl. “With the help of God,” she answered ambiguously, in her soft Picardian. By-and-by madame _l’hôtesse_ condescended to come and talk with him while he ate. She was veritably _chargée de cuisine_; she seemed to fill the place, width and height. “What is your condition in your own country?” she asked, with fat asperity. “I am grand-nephew to a monseigneur, to whose title and estates I shall succeed.” “_Vraigment_!” she clucked incredulously. “How arrives it, then, that you ‘pad the hoof’ like a _colporteur_?” “I travel for discipline and for experience, madame. Wisdom is not an heirloom.” She nodded her head. “Truly, it must be bought. I myself am a merchant of it.” “Doubtless,” said Mr Murk. “Witness your politeness to one who can afford to pay for politeness.” She seemed an atom disconcerted. “Well,” she said, “there is no accounting for the vagaries of the quality. And is his meal to moogsieur’s liking?” “It is very well, indeed.” “_Tout va biend_! I was in the half mind that you would wish your meat raw _à l’anglaise_.” “That is not the English fashion.” “_Oh, pardon_! they tear it with their hands and teeth, for I know. And sometimes it is worse.” “How worse, then?” She nodded again pregnantly.