Two sad-faced men with bags of samples were sitting by the counter, and Mr. Wright proceeded to impress his spectators by doing tremendous deals in St. Miniot rock, a pink sugar-stick with the name of the village running through in green. At last the travellers were let out conspiratorially by a back door; and Mr. Wright, with the air of a Minister who, by an effort, dismisses an international crisis from his mind and switches it instead on to a minor question of drains, asked Mr. and Mrs. Barrison how he could help them? “Ah!” he wagged his beard suspiciously at the incident of the doings at Gullick, and said that certain people, mentioning no names, needed watching all the time. “You’ll be going to St. Pol, no doubt, for your furniture? You’ll find some dishonest dealers up there, that charge high prices for rotten stuff. Now I could give you an introduction----” Doug and Ursula stood outside Mr. Wright’s shop, gazing at the window display: dusty bottles of Condy’s fluid; a heap of faded red, white and blue Coronation whistles, and some tin kettles. “I don’t think that his ideas of decoration and ours are quite the same,” said Doug. “We’ll go and rummage round in St. Pol on our own, Teddy.” Ursula, gazing silently at the window, was again clutched by apprehension.... Wright had not always lived at St. Miniot; he had travelled, dwelt in big cities, seen the shop-windows of great stores; why, then, did he not devote one morning’s energy and initiative into transforming his dreary and out-of-date frontage into bright new order, inviting customers. Was it that it did not matter--here? “Is it true, Mrs. Barrison, that you’ve taken Wenn’s cottage on the moor? They told me so, at Endellion’s cart”--Endellion, one of a large family, was the butcher who lived in the big mansion opposite the Vicarage. His cart, hung with joints, a welter of opaque pink and thick white, stood in his carriage-drive twice a week; and he, on the steps of his own front door, condescended affably to the humble stream of visitors and natives who trooped up to him with their dishes and baskets. “Endellion is so very disobliging,” Mrs. Fawcett went on, half crying. “He won’t let me have calves’ liver for my darlings, simply because Miss Tregunter at Penallen Lodge is so fond of liver, she takes all he’s got. You’ll want a cat directly you move in, won’t you, Mrs. Barrison? I can let you have the dearest little ginger tom--it’ll break my heart to let him go.” She was half crying still from her encounter with Endellion over the liver. “Dear me, I suppose you’ll be with us for good, now. Fancy that. But I’m sorry Wenn is your landlord--I wouldn’t be in his clutches for anything. Don’t trust him, Mrs. Barrison.... Poor Frankie Davis, who lived at Jermyn Street--wasn’t that an odd name for him to call his house down here?--he shot himself after two years.” “Was Wenn his landlord, then?”