rest, and kept such good liquor, that once a man discovered it he
always came back again; so Mr Twexby did a very comfortable trade.

Rumour said he had made a lot of money out of gold-mining, and that
he kept the hotel more for amusement than anything else; but,
however this might be, the trade of the Wattle Tree brought him in a
very decent income, and Mr Twexby could afford to take things easy--
which he certainly did.

Anyone going into the bar could see old Simon--a stolid, fat man,
with a sleepy-looking face, always in his shirt sleeves, and wearing
a white apron, sitting in a chair at the end, while his daughter, a
sharp, red-nosed damsel, who was thirty-five years of age, and
confessed to twenty-two, served out the drinks. Mrs Twexby had long
ago departed this life, leaving behind her the sharp, red-nosed
damsel to be her father's comfort. As a matter of fact, she was just
the opposite, and Simon often wished that his daughter had departed
to a better world in company with her mother. Thin, tight-laced,
with a shrill voice and an acidulated temper, Miss Twexby was still
a spinster, and not even the fact of her being an heiress could
tempt any of the Ballarat youth to lead her to the altar.
Consequently Miss Twexby's temper was not a golden one, and she
ruled the hotel and its inmates--her father included--with a rod of
iron.

Mr Villiers was a frequent customer at the Wattle Tree, and was in
the back parlour drinking brandy and water and talking to old Twexby
on the day that Pierre arrived. The dumb man came into the bar out
of the dusty road, and, leaning over the counter, pushed a letter
under Miss Twexby's nose.