“A villain so transparent as to be lovable,” reflected Ursula, summing him up. It was wonderful that with his naïve simplicity he should have attained such a sway of terror in St. Miniot and Polpinnock. Isaac Wenn was tall and ruddy, with a short black moustache. He wore a lilac cotton tie; and he spoke of himself pathetically as an old man, or nonchalantly as still a young one, adapted to opportunities of gain. Frequently, too, he spoke of money, and always as “good money”; the adjective was never omitted: “I paid good money to get my boys educated,” he would say, with a tinge of regret in his voice. Now, hearing that Doug was in search of a house, he became blatantly the spider who has sighted a fat fly: “Who was it, did you say, sir, told you I’d a house to let?” “I don’t know,” stammered Doug, suddenly remembering that he was under pledge to be wary and not mention the name of Wright, and forgetting that he had already done so. “Ah. You’m stayin’ up to Parc Gooth.” “Yes,” and the Barrisons waited apprehensively for warnings against the Abbotts, the Todys or the Laceys, according to the direction of Mr. Wenn’s prejudice. “I never got on with Miss Gregson,” said Wenn unexpectedly, taking the cigarette Doug offered him; “Thank you, sir--nor with Wright of St. Miniot neither. They’m not teetotallers, none of ’em--and when a man takes a glass too much, why he takes two or three glasses, d’you see, sir? throwing good money down their throats, ’stead of putting it by. And then they get tu talking. They’m all too fond of drink and talk, up tu St. Miniot. The one gentleman o’ the lot’s Mr. Abbott. Many’s the friendly glass o’ lemonade him and me have had together, sittin’ here at this table. You can trust he, same as you can trust me, being neither of us drinkers,” concluded Wenn of the Temperance Hotel, whose truculent speech and red face were unfortunate legacies from his former career as landlord of the King’s Arms, Newquay. “Now about this house. What rent was ee prepared to pay, Mr. Barrison?” “I’m a poor man,” Doug began, doing a little rudimentary diplomacy on his own. Mr. Wenn laughed with forced geniality. “Oh, come. Oh, that’s good. You don’t expect me to believe that. Wish I had what you had, Mr. Barrison!” “I wish you had,” replied Doug; “I mean I wish I had what you wished you had if I had it....” It struck Ursula that they were both more pathetic than comic, with their elaborate show of tactics and bluff. More little boys at their games ... they might just as well sit down side by side with their feet turned in, and say: “I’m going to do you!” “Yes, an’ I’m goin’ to do you too!”