The parlor below, with its highly polished bits of furniture, its spotless wooden floor and whitewashed walls, was a miracle of cleanliness.  The table in the center was laid with a snowy white cloth, on it the pewter candlesticks shone like antique silver.  Two straight-backed mahogany chairs were drawn cozily near to the hearth, wherein burned a bright fire made up of ash logs.  There was a quaint circular mirror in a gilt frame over the hearth, a relic of former, somewhat more prosperous times.

In one of the chairs lolled the mysterious lodger, whom a strange Fate in a perverse mood seemed to have wafted to this isolated little cottage on the outskirts of the loneliest village in Thanet.

Prince Amede d’Orleans was puffing at that strange weed which of late had taken such marked hold of most men, tending to idleness in them, for it caused them to sit staring at the smoke which they drew from pipes made of clay; surely the Lord had never intended such strange doings, and Mistress Martha would willingly have protested against the unpleasant odor thus created by her lodger when he was puffing away, only that she stood somewhat in awe of his ill-humor and of his violent language, especially when Adam himself was from home.

On these occasions—­such, for instance, as the present one—­she had, perforce, to be content with additional efforts at cleanliness, and, as she was convinced that so much smoke must be conducive to soot and dirt, she plied her dusting-cloth with redoubled vigor and energy.  Whilst the prince lolled and pulled at his clay pipe, she busied herself all round the tiny room, polishing the backs of the old elm chairs, and the brass handles of the chest of drawers.

“How much longer are you going to fuss about, my good woman?” quoth Prince Amede d’Orleans impatiently after a while.  “This shuffling round me irritates my nerves.”

Mistress Martha, however, suffered from deafness.  She could see from the quick, angry turn of the head that her lodger was addressing her, but did not catch his words.  She drew a little nearer, bending her ear to him.

“Eh? ... what?” she queried in that high-pitched voice peculiar to the deaf.  “I am somewhat hard of hearing just now.  I did not hear thee.”

But he pushed her roughly aside with a jerk of his elbow.

“Go away!” he said impatiently.  “Do not worry me!”

“Ah! the little pigs?” she rejoined blithely.  “I thank thee ... they be doing nicely, thank the Lord ... six of them and ... eh? what? ...  I’m a bit hard of hearing these times.”

He had some difficulty in keeping up even a semblance of calm.  The placidity of the old Quakeress irritated him beyond endurance.  He dreaded the return of Adam Lambert from his work, and worse still, he feared the arrival of Richard.  Fortunately he had gathered from Martha that the young man had come home early in the day in a state of high nervous tension, bordering on acute fever.  He had neither eaten nor drunk, but after tidying his clothes and reassuring her as to his future movements, he had sallied out into the woods and had not returned since then.