'He has none; he would make one. He has retired from his business.'
'What relations has he? They should be communicated with.'
'I do not know that he has any. My mother never spoke of my father's relations. She knew nothing of them; she did not want to know them. In this world everything is on shelves, and the things on each shelf are kept to themselves. Where they get mixed there is inextricable confusion. Above, angels; then kings, nobles, bourgeois, peasants, monkeys, and so down to the lowest form of life—those laid on the floor. My father's relatives were not noble.' Then suddenly, 'Are you noble, sir?'
Mr. Battishill threw up his head proudly. 'My family is gentle, and of ancient degree,' he said. 'We appeared in the Heralds' Visitation of 1620 in four descents, but I have title-deeds that show we were lords of the manor of West Wyke from the time of Edward the Third.'
'Those are your arms?' asked Mirelle, looking at the chimney-piece. 'What birds are those?'
'Owls,' answered Mr. Battishill, proudly; 'owls argent, beaked and clawed or.'
Mirelle contemplated the owls, then looked at the gentleman, with his blank eyes, beak-like nose, and grey hair. Her lips twitched slightly, but she was too well bred to smile.
'The bird is dedicated to Minerva. It is the symbol of wisdom,' she said.
'The Battishills were ever owls,' said he, proudly. Then he asked, glancing at the young man, 'Is this gentleman your brother?'
Mirelle looked up full for the first time into the young stranger's face.