With a business-like air of expectancy he stood waiting. He was much older than his wife, nearer fifty than forty, while she was still under thirty. He had a sensible face, with horizontal lines of care on the forehead, and absent eyes. People talking to Mr. Cragg often fancied that his thoughts were elsewhere; yet he generally heard what was said.
"I am a stranger in Putworth," was the first remark. "My name is Dale; and I am told that you have a house to let."
"Yes. About the only vacant house just now in Putworth."
"So I hear. One that you have just built. I went to the postmaster, and he advised me to come to you. My daughter and I arrived yesterday afternoon. We want to find a quiet home, somewhere on this line of rail. Easier to move my furniture than if we go elsewhere. I may want one or two things from you—possibly"—glancing round—"though we have nearly enough; very nearly enough."
"Putworth is a healthy place. You have not seen the house yet, of course?"
"The outside of it. We walked round yesterday evening for a look. Too late to do anything. It seemed to be just what I want."
"Extremely well situated."
"Well, yes. That meadow in front looks damp, and the surroundings are not pretty. Still, one can't have everything."
"Not pretty!" Cragg bristled up in a mild fashion. "There's green grass and a stream of water. What more can you want? And the meadow's drained."
Mr. Dale did not enlarge on his desires. A faint smile worked its way to his lips. He merely said: "What rent?"