"That's only four chapels; the others are Sunday schools, I'll bet--'the Macleods must have a boat o' their ain.' Then there's the church--that ruin up yonder--it'll have a school too----" But Ted's attention was diverted. "I say," he remarked, "that's a ripping girl!" She had come out of a cottage a little way from the inn to intercept Morris Pugh and was engaging him in a lively conversation, despite his hurry. She was tall, dressed in black that glinted, and the fact that her hair was in curling pins did not interfere with her very _voyante_ good looks. "H'm!" remarked Ned, coming over to see, "reminds me of last Monday--I mean Bank Holiday! Doesn't she?" The sarcasm was just, but it brought a faintly-annoyed flush to his companion's face. He knew himself to be a lower bred man, and the other Edward Cruttenden had a trick of reminding him of this and of certain other facts which, given fair choice, he would probably have forgotten. So the village was left to its own devices till tea was over, when he took his pipe to the window again. "Barring the prices, which whip an International Exhibition," he remarked, "this would be a jolly headquarters spot. That big hill--'Eye of the World,' the parson called it, didn't he?--is ripping!" This time the word lost its inherent triviality before the dignity of those receding curves of sunshine shown by shadow, which swept up to the light-smitten crest of the great mountain. "Personally," remarked Ned drily, "I find the view of the smithy more--Now, don't!--It isn't the least good fussing--it's the village tea-time, and not all the king's horses----" But Ted and his bad words were off hammering at the closed doors, and finally running the smith to earth, having tea comfortably on an oak dresser hung with lustre jugs. It was a very small, but highly decorated cottage, this of the smith, showing uneducated artistic cravings in many things, in a harmonium, endless cheap photograph frames, china enormities, a few glazed certificates in Welsh to one "Myfanwy Jones," and here and there a priceless bit of Staffordshire ware. Then ensued a deadlock. For the smith, scenting coercion, flared up instantly in Welsh, and Ted, conscious of breach of contract, grew abusive in English, till suddenly from above, came a full, high voice. "I will come down when I have finished dressing. Pray, sir, accommodate yourself with a cup of tea." Then followed shrill Welsh exordiums to the smith, which resulted in a cheerful smile as he reached down another cup. Ted took it, also a piece of bread and butter, feeling he could do nothing else, and as he sat waiting, the feminine voice continued upstairs a conversation which apparently had been going on when he had burst into the cottage, though he had been too ill-used to notice it.