“I’m glad you liked it. It’s the night for our little town, but it’s been kept more or less to ourselves. People don’t know about it, which is a good thing. You needn’t tell them or it will be ruined.”
“Our town.” Then the man belonged to the place. And yet he was surely not indigenous.
“It’s not new to you?” said Maradick tentatively.
“New! Oh! dear me, no!” the man laughed. “I belong here and have for many years past. At least it has been my background, as it were. You would be surprised at the amount that the place contains.”
“Oh, one can see that,” said Tony. “It has atmosphere more than any place I ever knew—medieval, and not ashamed of it, which is unusual for England.”
“We have been almost untouched,” said the other, “by all this modernising that is ruining England. We are exactly as we were five hundred years ago, in spite of the hotel. For the rest, Cornwall is being ruined. Look at Pendragon, Conister, and hundreds of places. But here we have our fair and our dance and our crooked houses, and are not ashamed.”
But Maradick had no desire to continue the conversation. He suddenly realised that he was very tired, sleepy—bed was the place, and this place with its chorus of sailors and smoke. . . . He finished his beer and rose.
“I’m afraid that we must be getting back,” he said. “It’s very late. I had no intention really of remaining as late.” He suddenly felt foolish, as though the other two were laughing at him. He felt strangely irritated.
“Of course,” he said to Tony, “it’s only myself. Don’t you hurry; but old bones, you know——” He tried to carry it off with a laugh.
“Oh! I’m coming,” said Tony. “We said we’d be back by twelve, and we’ve got five minutes. So we’ll say good night, sir.”