“Vampires! They will prey on the lowly of their kind. Oh, it is infamous! My cousin, _le bon_ Gaspard, saw a dish of theirs once in Barbade--_le Maure dans le bain_, they called it--a slave’s head served in sauce. This will be unknown to moogsieur?” “Unquestionably.” “It is possible. It is possible, also, that gentlemen who travel _incognito_ may learn some vulgar truths. I accept your ignorance in proof of your aristocracy. Those who sit in high places look only at the stars.” “You alarm me, madame. Indeed, I remember now that in my country it is possible to procure for eating ‘ladies’ fingers.’” “Oh, the barbarians! Is it not as I said?” Ned rose. “May I suggest to madame that I have not yet seen my bedroom?” “_Plaît-il, doncg_? if it will give you any gratification. But there is company there at present.” The gentleman stared. Madame van Roon backed from the doorway, gave an inaudible direction, and disappeared. The solemn girl took her place. “By permission of monsieur,” she said; and Ned followed her out of the room. She led him down one short passage straight into the _practicable_ kitchen. A rather melodious sound of singing greeted him on the threshold. He stopped in considerable wonder, postponing his entrance while he listened. “Little Lady Dormette, Hark to my crying! Would not you come to me Though I were dying? Little Lady Dormette, Kiss my hot eyes, Make me forget! Little Lady Dormette, Why have you left me? Sure not to lie with him That hath bereft me? Little Lady Dormette, Oh, do not kiss him, Lest he forget! Little Lady Dormette, Thee I so grieve for; If thou forsakest me, What shall I live for! Little Lady Dormette, Crush thy heart to mine, Make it forget!” The voice was small, sweet, emotional, but a man’s; the soft throb of a guitar accompanied it. All bespoke a certain melting effeminacy that was disagreeable to Ned. He pushed open the door however, made his salutation, and stood to take stock of his surroundings. Here, in truth, was revealed the working heart of the model--the stokehole of that vessel of which the outer room exhibited but the polished bearings. The fat air was heavy with the smell of lately cooked food; the pots, the trenchers, the waste parings that had served to the preparation of the latter were even now in huddled process of removal by a panting _cuisinière_, with whom the company present did not hesitate to exchange a dropping-fire of badinage. A foul litter of vegetable and other rubbish disgraced the white deal of the table--cabbage leaves and broken egg-shells and a clump of smoking bones. In the scuttle was a mess of turnip peelings, on the hearth an iron pail brimming with gobbets of grease and coffee-grounds and the severed head of a cock.