The idea that they had removed far from the world’s hum merely because they could not (or would not) be conventionally married, was only entertained when bracketed with one of the other conjectures. Otherwise it was too much of a commonplace at St. Miniot to find favour. Mere bankruptcy was also too mild for a thrill. Besides, “foreigners” who came to St. Miniot were usually not bankrupt--beforehand. “Ah.... Then you’ll be wanting a house with plenty of land?” “Not for a year or two. I’m out for practical experience first.... I’ll go as a labourer to any prosperous farmer in the neighbourhood who’ll teach me the job in return. I’ve all my life in front of me, Sampson, and unless you shove all your guts into an enterprise, you might as well leave it alone. Don’t you agree?” Mr. Wright might have agreed more heartily if he had not just been addressed as Sampson. It proved that Doug had been patronizing the other stores. “The house I’m thinking of,” he began--“but I’d rather you just gave me your authority for making inquiries about it, and leave it at that for the moment. Between ourselves, Mr. Barrison, it’s the property of Isaac Wenn, who keeps the Temperance Hotel up to Polpinnock. That’s a local expression, of course--‘up to’ anywhere. I’ve been here so long now that I’m sorry to say I’m falling into their habits. Have you heard Wenn spoken of? No? Ah--they’re afraid to, for the most part. Wenn’s hard--he’d skin a louse for its hide and tallow.” He waggled a gratified beard in acknowledgement of Ursula’s chuckle. “He was landlord of the King’s Arms, near Newquay, when he was younger. Made a pile out of liquor, Wenn did. And now he’s making a pile out of temperance.” Ursula’s chuckle broke into a laugh: “I think I shall like Mr. Wenn. He sounds broad-minded.” “I’ll crash over and see him about the house at once,” Doug said. “Only a mile or two to Polpinnock, isn’t it?” Mr. Wright advised him to wait: “And I’ll make a few careful inquiries first and then let you know.... Let me see--perhaps if you were to call in here Thursday about eleven.... And if I’ve customers in the shop, if you wouldn’t mind making out you wanted some trifle----” “Right-o! I’ll buy a ball of string.” “Well--no”--Mr. Wright considered the proposition carefully--“because Lizzie Mawgan heard me selling Mrs. Barrison a ball of string a few minutes ago; and it might get about and look funny, if it happened again within a week. They’re dreadful scandalmongers down here--poor ignorant souls, they’ve nothing better to do, most of them. But I shouldn’t care for Wenn to get suspicious. Just in confidence, Mr. Barrison, don’t trust him too far. He’s a sharp business man and needs watching. But it might do me harm for him to hear it repeated that I’d make mischief----”