Mr. Herring was staggered. He could not reply, and say that she was trespassing on the hospitality of entire strangers. She turned to continue her walk.
'That is a fine orange lily,' she said to Cicely.
'You must really allow me to detain you,' pursued Herring. 'All I ask now is, may Mr. Battishill and I look through your father's desk that is in his trunk? His bunch of keys has been given to you. Will you open the desk, or shall we do it with your sanction?'
'Do what you like, Mr. Fish.'
Cicely looked reprovingly at Mirelle, and ventured on a correction. 'Mr. Herring, you mean.'
Mirelle's cheek tinged faintly.
'I beg your pardon, sir. Your name had escaped me. I am not yet familiar with English names, which seem to me harsh or grotesque. I remembered that you belonged to the fishes, but to which particular family of fish I did not recall.'
Herring bit his lip, then said quietly, 'Would you prefer opening your father's desk yourself, Countess?'
'Mon Dieu, non!'
'Then will you give me the key, and allow us to examine the contents of the desk?'