Finally, they were taken to look at the house. It stood in a clump with the Vicarage, the doctor’s house and the butcher’s house. The latter was the most palatial of the three, but Mr. Wenn’s house was approached by a carriage-drive which was his special pride: “This is a _gentleman’s_ residence,” he said; and pointed out some artificial swirls and markings which covered the light shiny wood of the front door: “That there graining, I did every bit of it myself. It costs good money to have done, graining does.” “It’s a _horrible_ house,” whispered Ursula to Doug, who nodded agreement. But sycophantically they praised it to the complacent Wenn, who, sure now of his tenants, began to bluster afresh that his intention in getting rid of the former occupants, was to dwell himself, with his wife and family, at Bella Vista. “Then have you anything else to let, Mr. Wenn?” “Only a cottage; nearer St. Miniot; about a couple o’ miles from here back along by the moor. I’ll have the jingle out--no trouble at all, Mrs. Barrison.” He was anxious to show them the cottage, to emphasize in tantalizing contrast the superiority of Bella Vista. While he harnessed the pony to the jingle, Ursula strolled down on to the Polpinnock sands, much valued by families, because they were “so safe,” and by sightseers, because they contained the famous Drummer’s Cave. Returning to Wenn’s Temperance Hotel, which stood on a small outjutting headland west of the cove, she noticed on a similar headland east of the cove, the torn and jagged framework of a ruined house, looking rather like the mouth of a Jew after treatment from King John. A dejected signboard still flapped over a non-existent frontage, and on it Ursula was able to decipher the words “Polpinnock Arms.” From which she gathered the significant truth, that this dilapidated tumble of masonry had once been the rival establishment to Mr. Wenn’s hotel. Perhaps, after all, rumour might be correct in saying that Wenn was a hard man.... She was silent on the drive, studying the stolid red of his nape, and wishing one might adopt the simple course of asking a swindler straight out whether he were a swindler or not. The cottage stood on the empty edge of cliff between rough moor and sea. It was a defiantly plain squat little building of grey stone, seeming to emphasize the fact that what with winter storms and so forth, it had no time for mere prinking prettiness. The gorse and bramble grew almost up to the doors, without any compromise of garden; and there was no carriage drive. Obviously not a “gentleman’s residence.” Yet Ursula and Doug both knew at once that, in the jargon of house-agents, they were suited. “We might as well look inside,” said Ursula in disparaging tones. For she was beginning to know Mr. Wenn.