It was evident that the landlady did not recognise the description, but she seemed to consider.
"No," she said, "there's nobody like that; but I did hear that they'd a young lady staying at the vicarage."
Then she changed the subject abruptly, and Wyllard once more decided that the English did not like questions.
"You're a stranger, sir?" she said.
"I am," said Wyllard. "I've some business to attend to further on, but I came along on foot, to see the fells, and I'm glad I did. It's a great and wonderful country you're living in. That is," he added gravely, "when you get outside the towns. There are things in some of them that most make one ill."
Then he stood up. "That tray's too heavy for you. Won't you let me carry it?"
The landlady seemed astonished, but she made it clear that she desired no assistance, and when she went out Wyllard, who sat down again, took out the photograph. He gazed at it steadfastly, and then put it back into his pocket.
"There's rather more than mere prettiness there, but I don't know that I want to keep it now," he said. "It's way behind the original. She has grown in the meanwhile—just as one would expect that girl to grow."
Then he lighted his pipe, and smoked thoughtfully until he appeared to arrive at a decision.
"One can't force the running in this country. They don't like it," he said. "I'll lie by a day or two, and keep an eye on that vicarage."