AND in the morning Ursula did feel different. So different that she went up to Mr. Wright’s shop, on the pretext of buying matches and soap and a bucket; and there heard the secret history of the evening before. Mr. Wright’s beard was very knowing and triumphant over it all; and he was able to enlighten Ursula as to the mysterious vanishings after she had run into the house to fetch out Wenn from the pantry. Miss Gregson’s Eye-talian, it appeared, had coughed, and she, fearing for his Southern lungs exposed to the sea-mists, had hurried him to the “Dog and Pilchard” for a fiery drink; whereupon the American had invited the rest of the company likewise to come down into the warm bar-parlour, and there further to negotiate the matter of Parc Gooth over glasses of hot whisky. The Allingham-Joneses had accepted; but old Abbott and his wife, possibly realizing that--in melodramatic parlance--their game was up, had silently detached themselves from the others, and driven off in their jingle.... The voice of Tody, however, penetrated at intervals from the public bar, beyond the glass door, in disjointed confidences to Jeyne the landlord--“the lady and gentleman” occurred frequently in his narration, and “Tody” and Tody and Tody and Tody.... “And what’s the upshot?” Ursula asked. “Who’s going to have Parc Gooth?” It was one of the glowing moments which made Mr. Wright’s drab life worth the living: “I don’t think Major Allingham-Jones will live there, Mrs. Barrison,” mysteriously. “The American, then? Wenn’s man?” The grocer shook his head ... took down some boxes from the shelf and put them back again; opened the door which separated his parlour from the shop, and called to his daughter: “Alice, have you gone yet?... Oh, she has. Yes. Well, Mrs. Barrison, I’ll tell you this, knowing it’ll go no further, for the people here are so ignorant that they believe a man’s always pushing his own trade interests when he simply wants to befriend some one; and it would be awkward for me if my name was to be mixed up in this. Very awkward. I’m in a difficult position, you see, not being a native of the place. And they’re already saying it must have been somebody who wrote to Miss Gregson putting her on her guard. And though I remind them, carelessly, if you follow me, that the Vicar had her address as well as myself----” George Sampson hobbled into the shop. Recognizing Ursula, he saluted her, his wistful, threadbare look holding no malice for her patronage of the rival stores. “Good day to ’ee, Mrs. Barrison. Fine weather after the fog. Wright, is it true what they’m sayin’ down tu Cove?--that Miss Gregson and her Eye-talian are comin’ back for good to live at Parc Gooth?” “Oh!” Ursula cried in amazement. Mr. Wright stood with rigidly guarded countenance, examining his stock of gingham aprons.