The parlourmaid set before Miriam a small shapely fish, with scales like mother-of-pearl and pink fins, lying in a curl of paper. “Red mullet,” she exclaimed to herself; “how on earth do I know that it’s red mullet? And those _are_ olives, of course.” Mrs. Corrie was humming to herself about Mélie as the fork in her thin little fingers plucked fitfully at the papered fish. “Do you know planchette?” she asked, in a faint singsong, turning with a little bold pounce to the salt-cellar close at Miriam’s left hand. “Oh-h-h” said Miriam intelligently.... “Planchette ... Planchette ... Cloches de Corneville. Planquette. Is planchette a part of all this?... Planchette, a French dressmaker, perhaps.” She turned fully round to Mrs. Corrie and waited, smiling sympathetically. “It’s deadly uncanny,” Mrs. Corrie went on, “I can tell you. _Deadly._” Her delicate voice stopped fearfully and she glanced at Miriam with a laugh. “I don’t believe I know what it is,” said Miriam, sniffing in the scent of the mimosa and savouring the delicate flavour of the fish. These things would go on after planchette was disposed of, she thought, and took a sip of hock. “It’s deadly. I hope Mélie’ll bring one. She’s a fairy; real Devonshire fairy. She’ll make it work. We’ll have _such_ fun.” “What is it?” said Miriam a little uneasily.... A fairy and a planchette and fun--silly laughter, some tiresome sort of game; a hoax. “I tell you _all_ about it, all, all ...” intoned Mrs. Corrie provisionally, whilst the maid handed the tiny ready-cut saddle of lamb. “Spinnich? Ah, nicey spinnich; you can leave us that, Stokes.... Oh, you _must_ have Burgundy--spin-spin and Burgundy; awful good; a thimble-full, half a glass; that’s right.” The clear dry hock had leapt to Miriam’s brain and opened her eyes, the Burgundy spread through her limbs, a warm silky tide. The green flavour of the spinach, tasting of earth, and yet as smooth as cream intoxicated her. Surely nothing could so delicately build up your strength as these small stubby slices of meat so tender that it seemed to crumble under your teeth.... “It’s an awful thing. It whirls about and writes with a pencil. Writes. All sorts of things,” said Mrs. Corrie, with a little frightened laugh. “Really. No nonsense. Names. Anythin’. Whatever you’re thinkin’ about. It’s uncanny, I can tell you.” “It sounds most extraordinary,” said Miriam, with a firm touch of scepticism. “You wait. Oh--you wait,” sang Mrs. Corrie in a whisper. “I shall find out, I shall find out, if you’re not careful, I shall find out his name.” Miriam blushed violently. “Ah-ha,” beamed Mrs. Corrie in a soft high monotone. “_I_ shall find out. We’ll have _such_ fun.” “Do you _believe_ in it?” said Miriam, half irritably. “You wait--you wait--you wait, young lady. Mélie’ll be here on Friday day.”