“Penwynn, the banker, sir?” said the coachman, turning his head sharply, and pointing to a grey house just above the town, sheltered amongst some trees at the head of the little bay. “That’s his house, sir—An Morlock.”
“Thanks, coachman. Did you say you knew him, Mr Lee?”
“Not at present,” said the clergyman, still keeping up his reserve, but all the time feeling, in spite of himself, drawn towards his travelling-companion. “I am a stranger here.”
“I hope we shall be strangers no longer. Beautiful country, is it not?”
“Ye-es. Very picturesque,” said the clergyman, gazing vacantly around, the other watching him in an amused way, as, after letting his eyes rest for a few moments on the beautiful expanse of rocky hill, shady ravine, and glistening sea, he once more raised his book and went on reading.
“Books always, and not men’s minds,” muttered Geoffrey Trethick. Then, bending forwards, he once more engaged the coachman in conversation, to the clergyman’s great relief; and, putting a set of leading questions, he drew from the driver all the information he could about the neighbourhood and its people, the man finishing with,—
“Ah, sir, it’s as fine and good a country as any in England, if it wasn’t for the adventurers, and they about ruin it.”
“Indeed!” said the young man, with the air of being once more very much amused; and then the coach drew up at the door of the principal inn. There was a little bustle, and the occupants of the various seats climbed down, luggage was handed out of the boots, and the two travellers stood together on the rough paving-stones.
“Take my portmanteau in, boots,” said Trethick, sharply. “Do you breakfast here at the hotel, Mr Lee?”
“Sir,” said the clergyman, distantly, “I have not yet made my plans.”