“That must be Mr. Muhlen,” exclaimed the Duchess.  “They say he played beautifully at the hotel last night.  I wonder whether I could induce him to try my Longwood?  It’s rather an old model, I fear, and out of tune.”

The gentleman appeared, ostentatiously dressed and escorted by Mr. Richards, the Vice-President of the Alpha and Omega Club, who seemed to be fairly steady on his legs and was presently absorbed in an artistic examination of a number of silver ornaments, crucifixes, relics and suchlike objects of virtu, which the Duchess had gathered together.  He handled them like a connoisseur.  Others of that institution had promised to attend the party but, on being overhauled by the conscientious Vice-President, were found to be unpresentable at the last moment.

The Duchess moved away to greet him.  Mr. Heard remarked to Don Francesco: 

“That middle-aged colleague of yours, yonder—­he has an unusual face.”

“Our parish priest.  A sound Christian!”

The parroco’s thin lips, peaked nose, beady eyes and colourless cheeks proclaimed the anchorite, if not the monomaniac.  He flitted about like a draught of cold air, refusing all refreshments and not daring to smell the flowers, lest he should derive too much pleasure from them.  He was often called Torquemada, from his harsh and abstemious habits.  The name had been given him, of course, by his brother priests who knew about such matters, and not by the common people to whom the word Torquemada would have suggested, if anything, a savoury kind of pudding.  Torquemada was capable of any sacrifice, of any enormity, in defence of the faith.  A narrow medieval type, he was the only person on Nepenthe who would have been hewn in pieces for his God—­nobody allowing themselves to be even temporarily incommoded in so visionary a cause.  He enjoyed a reputation of perfect chastity which differentiated him from all the remaining priests and contributed, more than anything else, to his unpopularity.  It enraged the frankly carnal natives to such an extent that they made insinuations about his bodily health and told other horrible stories, swore they were true, and offered to give statistical figures in confirmation.  They said, among other things, that after begging money from wealthy foreigners for alleged repairs to the parish organ and other godly purposes, he kept the proceeds himself on the principle that charity began at home and ought to end there.  Nobody could deny his devotion to mother, sisters, and even distant relatives.  So much was also certain, that the parroco’s family was poor.

Harp-like tinklings arose from an adjoining chamber; a general move took place in that direction.  Mr. Keith was there.  He sat beside Madame Steynlin who, being a fair performer herself, was listening with rapture to Muhlen’s strains.  During a pause he said: 

“I wish I could make it out.  It annoys me, Madame Steynlin, not to comprehend the charm of music.  I would give almost anything to the person who can satisfy me that what I hear is not a succession of unnecessary noises.”