“I thought she looked a little heavy about the eyes this morning,” said the Marchioness, apparently very agitated; “and I have heard from Eglamour this post; he is not well, too; I think everybody is ill now; he has caught a fever going to see the ruins of Paestum. I wonder why people go to see ruins!” “I wonder, indeed,” said Miss Graves; “I never could see anything in a ruin.” “O, Mr. Grey!” continued the Marchioness, “I really am afraid Julie is going to be very ill.” “Let Miss Graves pull her tail and give her a little mustard seed: she will be better tomorrow.” “Remember that, Miss Graves.” “Oh! y-e-s, my Lady!” “Mrs. Felix,” said the Marchioness, as that lady entered the room, “you are late to-day; I always reckon upon you as a supporter of an early breakfast at Desir.” “I have been half round the park.” “Did you hear the scream, Mrs. Felix?” “Do you know what it was, Marchioness?” “No: do you?” “See the reward of early rising and a walk before breakfast. It was one of your new American birds, and it has half torn down your aviary.” “One of the new Americans? O the naughty thing; and has it broken the new fancy wirework?” Here a little odd-looking, snuffy old man, with a brown scratch wig, who had been very busily employed the whole breakfast-time with a cold game pie, the bones of which Vivian observed him most scientifically pick and polish, laid down his knife and fork, and addressed the Marchioness with an air of great interest. “Pray, will your Ladyship have the goodness to inform me what bird this is?” The Marchioness looked astounded at any one presuming to ask her a question; and then she drawled, “Mr. Grey, you know everything; tell this gentleman what some bird is.” Now this gentleman was Mr. Mackaw, the most celebrated ornithologist extant, and who had written a treatise on Brazilian parroquets, in three volumes folio. He had arrived late at the Château the preceding night, and, although he had the honour of presenting his letter of introduction to the Marquess, this morning was the first time he had been seen by any of the party present, who were of course profoundly ignorant of his character. “Oh! we were talking of some South American bird given to the Marchioness by the famous Captain Tropic; you know him, perhaps; Bolivar’s brother-in-law, or aide-de-camp, or something of that kind; and which screams so dreadfully at night that the whole family is disturbed. The Chowchowtow it is called; is not it, Mrs. Lorraine?” “The Chowchowtow!” said Mr. Mackaw; “I don’t know it by that name.” “Do not you? I dare say we shall find an account of it in Spix, however,” said Vivian, rising, and taking a volume from the book-case; “ay! here it is; I will read it to you.”