"Because she sells packs of cards, old girl." "Ah, but there's something more than that. I went in there one day, and he had hold of her hand across the counter; and I could see, though she turned it off, that she had been crying." "Asking her to wed, and let him succeed to the business," said Barclay, with a chuckle. "Don't talk nonsense, Jo-si-ah. I wish I had a good, clear head like you, and was as clever, and then perhaps I could make this out." "What?" "About Miss Clode. I'm sure she has seen better days." "That she has," said Barclay, chuckling. "She looks pretty shabby now, a newsy, gossiping old hag!" "I don't dislike Miss Clode," said Mrs Barclay thoughtfully. "There's much worse in Saltinville." "I dare say," he said, laughing. "I've only one thing against her." "What's that?" "She hates poor Claire Denville like poison." Volume One, Chapter XXVII. FISHERMAN DICK STARES. Major Rockley had counted upon getting a hundred pounds from Barclay, and the refusal annoyed him to so great an extent that he determined upon having a sharp walk to calm himself. So setting off at a good rate towards the main cliff to reach the downs beyond the town, he had not gone far before he saw a graceful figure, in a white dress, with black scarf and plain straw bonnet going in the same direction. "Claire Denville as I'm a sinner!" he cried, his pale cheeks flushing, and a curious light shining in his dark eyes. "Yes, without doubt," he muttered. "Off for a walk to the downs. Lucky accident. At last!" He checked himself, walking slowly, so as not to overtake her until she was well out of the town, and thinking that perhaps it would be as well to keep back until she turned, and then meet her face to face. "The jade! How she has kept me at a distance. Refused my notes, and coquetted with me to make me more eager for the pursuit. The old man's lessons have not been thrown away. I'm to approach in due form, I suppose. Well, we shall see." Claire went straight on, walking pretty quickly, and without turning her head to right or left. The streets were left behind; the row of houses facing the sea had come to an end; and she was getting amongst the fishermen's cottages, while below the cliff the fishing boats were drawn high up on the shingle, and long, brown filmy nets spread out to dry, looking like square shadows cast by invisible sails, and mingled with piles of tarred barrels, lobster baskets, and brown ropes, bladders and corks. Every here and there, on the railing at the cliff edge, hung oilskins to soften in the sunshine, and in one place a giant appeared to be sitting astride the rail, with nothing to be seen of him but a huge pair of boots. Farther on fish were drying in the air, and farther still there came up a filmy cloud of grey smoke from the shingle, along with a pleasant smell of Stockholm tar, for Fisherman Dick was busy paying the bottom of a boat turned upside down below the cliff.